


And it will burst

by etloveral



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Family, France (Country), Friendship, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Original Character(s), Revolution, Sibilings, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, a lot of drama but a lot of happiness, and thenardiers have the money now, but I hope you enjoy it ;), can be stressful, enjonine - Freeform, les amis and thenardier kids are one big dream team, lost drafts of Hugo (just kidding!), someone will definitely die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etloveral/pseuds/etloveral
Summary: "An amazing thing is randomness. What happens at the right time and in the right place sometimes decides our fate".
Relationships: Combeferre/Azelma Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)/Original Female Character(s), Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier, Grantaire/Original Character(s), M. Thénardier/Mme. Thénardier (Les Misérables)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 7





	1. CHAPTER 1, WHERE THE LARK RETURNS TO THE CAGE

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: English is not my first language, so please point out any errors if you see them. Thanks! 
> 
> So, It all started with the fact that Jean Valjean never managed to escape from Javert. Cosette and his savings remained with Thenardiers, and then...

Not all the poor souls who inhabit this world are destined to live comfortably in the future, full of hope, grace and love. Luck smiles on a few and knows absolutely no justice or pity. Souls filled with light tend to perish almost more than other souls, and most often they are forced to exist in darkness. These included the escaped convict Jean Valjean. Poor Cosette was one of them.

Their destinies, as if sealed in heaven, were to be intertwined, and their souls were to be united. And this would have happened if the world had been a little more just. But cruelty and evil fate decided otherwise: Jean Valjean and Cosette were destined to part forever.

When they left the Inn of Thenardiers, they put themselves in great danger. Neither Jean Valjean nor Cosette made a sound as they moved in the silence and darkness. The simple pleasure of talking to each other was beyond them. Paris at night seemed to the ex-convict hostile, dangerous, gloomy and endless, entwined with thousands of streets, alleys, squares and boulevards. As he took each step, he was not so much afraid for himself as for Cosette: life without her was like being in the grave, and the mere thought of it was like the agony of death. So Jean Valjean was particularly attentive as he moved along the narrow streets of Paris. Clutching his daughter's fragile hand, he searched for the quietest, safest, and most unlit places — in other words, places where inspector Javert could not hide. But the haunting shadows moved at their heels: here and there Jean Valjean saw a police uniform, and here and there a terrible thunderous voice was heard.  
The only escape for Jean Valjean and Cosette was the wall that blocked their path. It towered eighteen feet, and beyond it, on that happy side, you could finally breathe in peace. Jean Valjean, a master of climbing without ladders or hooks, but using only muscular strength, set to work. He was driven by fear and excitement, which usually creates a real storm in the soul of a person, which, in turn, can lead to great deeds. Jean Valjean could clearly hear voices approaching, and when he looked back over his own shoulder, he saw two policemen standing in the dead end of the street. He easily recognized them as Javert's assistants, and they recognized him as the escaped convict.

At that moment, for the third time, Jean Valjean saw a hideous, terrible, and inescapable abyss open before him: he was caught. The police were faster, smarter, stronger and more resilient. Grabbing him and twisting his arms, they clearly felt superior. Jean Valjean was too weak to fight. By doing so, he would endanger not only his own life, but Cosette's as well, and that could not be allowed.

Jean Valjean dropped his hands. He succumbed to a cruel fate.

\- Do whatever you want with me, but for God's sake don't touch Cosette. It wasn't her fault.

The policemen looked at each other. In the midnight darkness, they could have been mistaken for twin brothers, only one seemed slightly wider than the other and had sharper features.

— What are you going to do with it? - the first one asked, looking skeptically at the small, frail girl who had cowered in a corner in fear.

At this moment, Jean Valjean heard loud, heavy, and hollow footsteps behind him. It was Javert, who had probably heard a voice so familiar and so hateful.

\- Jean Valjean, - he said coldly, but there was triumph in his stern eyes.  
\- Inspector, - Jean Valjean managed only a weak nod. — Do you have pen and paper? I have a job to finish, and then I'll go wherever you want me to go.

\- Hard labor.

\- So be it.

Pen and paper were found in the prefecture of police. Under Javert's strict supervision, Jean Valjean dictated a letter to one of the secretaries. The content was as follows:

"Madame and Monsieur Thenardier! The money I send with this letter and Cosette is rightfully hers. I promised her mother at the time, as you know, to follow her, but I can't keep that promise. All the money attached to this letter was earned honestly, if that's what you're concerned about. The business of the factory was very profitable, and so I had six hundred thousand francs in my pocket. Use them for the good of Cosette and do not deny her anything. Let her eat the best food, wear the best clothes, and gain knowledge.  
Best wishes, sir, for taking this poor child from you."

With these words Jean Valjean was silent. Before taking him away, he was allowed to say goodbye to Cosette. This farewell was both the most tender and the saddest thing that ever happened within the walls of the prefecture of Paris. Cosette, who had not yet come to regard Jean Valjean as her father, nevertheless felt for him that special love which only children have. Clutching the doll in her hands, she whispered:

\- Bye, good sir.

\- Goodbye, Cosette. Be a good girl, — replied Jean Valjean, and his once clear eyes were lost forever.

Inspector Javert volunteered to deliver Cosette, the letter, and the suitcase with the money to Montfermeil on his own. He wanted to see this case through to the end and see for himself that it was a fair outcome.

And Cosette, clutching the doll, did not even know where the ill-fated carriage was going. A young and innocent soul, just rescued from the clutches of darkness and ignorance, was going to be there again.


	2. CHAPTER 2, WHERE DARK PERSONALITIES RECEIVE MORE THAN THEY ARE OWED

It happens that people who have done a lot of evil before, at the end of their miserable lives, get what they deserve and repent of all the sins they have committed over the decades. But the Thenardiers were not one of them. When they said good — bye to the unknown gentleman and Cosette, they only regretted that they had not been able to get more money out of the former-the francs that He had given them before he left seemed now quite insufficient.

On the evening when the situation should have changed in favor of the Thenardier family, they went about their usual business as usual. My father counted the money, writing out expenses and income on a crumpled sheet of parchment. My mother was sitting on a chair by the fire, reading another novel, and Eponine and Azelma were playing with the cat. Things were going badly at the Inn, but the Thenardiers were not yet completely down: they belonged to that class of people who can not be called neither the lower nor the middle. They managed to balance between them.

It was after eight o'clock when there was a knock at the Inn door. Thenardier hurried to open it.

There was a tall, gray-haired man with a hard face, square jaw, and expressive sideburns. He looked at Thenardier with a disdainful coldness that was tinged with disbelief. The stranger was tense and, even worse, dressed in a police uniform.

"Can I get You something to help you, Monsieur?" Thenardier's  
Smile was feigned, his voice sweet and sour, and his tone so ingratiating that even a fool would have recognized it as an attempt to curry favor.

"Are You Basil Thenardier?" the policeman asked coldly, adjusting the visor of his headdress with a broad, callused hand.

The innkeeper nodded. The policeman entered the Inn.

"Do you know a man named Jean Valjean?" he asked.

"No," said Thenardier.

— He left a message for You.

The disbelief and interest in the innkeeper's eyes turned to fear. This Jean valjean might easily have been one of those to whom Thenardier owed a hundred or two francs, and either from lack of funds, or from his own greed, he forgot to pay them back. The innkeeper narrowed his eyes so that his gaze would not betray his true emotions, and again smiled his deceptively friendly smile.

"How nice of this gentleman," he murmured. "I hope I didn't hurt him."

"I don't know," said the inspector, and placed a heavy leather suitcase on one of the empty chairs.

Then he took a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his uniform coat and handed it to the innkeeper.

— Read.

The room fell silent. Madame Thenardier, who had been sitting by the fire surrounded by her novels, could no longer remain indifferent. Rising, she hurried to her husband and was the first to open the cherished note, unable to control her own patience.

"Give it back, you fool!" her husband shouted at her, and the woman gave up.

The policeman watched the scene in silence. He stood like a stone statue in front of one of the narrow tables where Jean Valjean's last note had rested.

Thenardier was silent as he read it, but his eyes grew wider and wider. He squinted, then frowned, then raised his eyebrows, then lowered them, then stuck out his tongue for something. He turned the note this way and that, folded it up and laid it out again, and once decided to taste it. This kind of people, called scammers, is characterized by an extreme degree of distrust.

"Six hundred thousand!" finally, he shouted. "Six hundred thousand francs!" Us! Me!

Madame Thenardier snatched the letter from her husband without further bustle. Even Eponine and Azelma, who were playing noisily in the far corner of the room, were now silent. At this moment, a small, thin girl, who could hardly have been seven or eight years old, appeared from behind the policeman. Her large blue eyes were filled with fear, resentment, weakness, and — worst of all — despair. It was Cosette. She, because of her age, did not understand at all what these "six hundred thousand francs" were, and why her tormentors looked so joyfully at the old leather bag. The word "franc" was familiar to her from Monsieur Thenardier's reasoning, and she understood what it meant by "money." Then six hundred thousand francs is a lot of money?

"We are very grateful to you, dear inspector!" Madame Thenardier stammered, which, combined with her gruff voice, had the effect of being more comical than ingratiating. "Cosette! Dear child!" she drawled, noticing the girl. "Come here, don't be afraid! Let me see what a beautiful doll you have!"

Cosette didn't move. Then Madame Thenardier picked her up clumsily and kissed her on both cheeks, so that the girl's face might have been bruised by this peculiar rush of tenderness. This woman was not disposed to show her warm feelings if they were not for her daughters, but the six hundred thousand francs temporarily clouded her mind.

Thenardier, meanwhile, bowed to the inspector, folded the letter again, and put it in his waistcoat pocket.

"Thank you very much," he said. "You can tell Jean Valjean that we won't hurt this tiny pearl."

With these words, the innkeeper, with an affectation of tenderness that was not really a drop of living warmth, stroked Cosette's head and gave Her one of those smiles that people usually find intimidating.

"I did my duty," the inspector said, heading for the door. "Forgive".

Javert tried not to think about the sad, hurt, and at the same time reproachful look that Cosette gave him.

And Madame and Monsieur Thenardier, who had become so unexpectedly rich, were shouting about the best way to spend the money. The husband did not listen to the wife, and the wife did not listen to the husband, but, blinded by greed, they continued to give out one after another their boldest and most secret assumptions.

— I'll pay all my debts!

— I'll hire servants!

— I will rebuild this tavern!

— I will buy new things for myself and my daughters!

— I will move all of us to Paris!

In these cries, the true nature of the Thenardiers could be seen more clearly than ever. We can say that they were not so disgusting from one side: there was at least one "we" for several "I's". For all their grimness and depravity, there was still a drop of parental love in them, and, therefore, a drop of humanity. They were black, but not black enough to drive them straight into the abyss.

At this moment, in this moment of the triumph of avarice, coupled with a drop of affection and charity, there were only four pure souls left in the Inn — Cosette, Eponine, Azelma, and a little boy crying loudly somewhere under the stairs.


	3. CHAPTER 3, WHERE MISERY GIVES WAY TO LUXURY

"No, it is absolutely impossible to live like this!" Thenardier said on the ninth day of his forced and extremely surprising wealth. "We must go to Paris!"

This bold statement was accompanied by a splash of hands and a patter of feet, and therefore immediately attracted the attention of his wife, who had already dressed up in a new dress of dark green. Like his wife, Thenardier had dressed up in a few days: instead of an old blouse and waistcoat, he now wore a starched shirt and waistcoat that still smelled like a garment factory. Madame Thenardier now had her hair done, a pair of jewelry, and a new wardrobe; Eponine and Azelma had fresh dresses, shoes, and winter clothes. Gavroche got Azelma's old jacket and shoes. To the reader's remark that two poor children, Gavroche and Cosette, might have received more, Thenardier would have replied: "I have spent fifteen hundred francs to cover my debts, and I have no spare money left for these backbiters!"

Cosette, the main burden of the Thenardier family in their own opinion, despite the instructions of Jean Valjean, had nothing. On the evening when the Thenardiers learned of their fabulous wealth, the girl received only one day off and a kiss on the cheek that filled her with fear and disgust rather than childish joy. The next day, Madame Thenardier gave her the old dresses of Eponine and Azelma, which pleased Cosette immensely: the clothes were worn, but almost clean and almost without holes. Dressing up in them, Cosette could imagine herself a real young lady who goes for a walk. Such thoughts made her live on and gave this pure but unhappy soul a little light, so necessary to be in a cruel world.

Eponine and Azelma now treated Cosette with contempt and a touch of pity rather than hatred. On that bright March morning, when the Thenardiers decided to go to Paris to arrange their affairs, Azelma even tried to protect the unfortunate Cosette. When the girl gathered her things in a small bundle, allocated out of pity for Madame Thenardier, it did not fit her favorite purple dress. 

"Madam, can I put it somewhere else?" Cosette asked softly.

Madame Thenardier grimaced and shook her head. It is worth noting that wealth affected the Thenardier couple in different ways: if Thenardier himself became even greedier, but at the same time became fat, then his wife, not knowing the true price of money, was ready to spend it right and left, buying clothes, shoes, jewelry, household utensils and other trash. At the same time, she did not soften, and her natural roughness remained with her as a constant companion.

That's why she wouldn't let Cosette take the dress to Paris. And the poor girl would never have seen it if it hadn't been for seven year-old Azelma - small, round, with a slightly upturned nose and two black pigtails, but already more courageous and compassionate than her mother.

"Maman, she can put the dress in my bag. There's still room!" she said, opening a brand-new suitcase for her mother as if to prove it.

Madame Thenardier grimaced, but could not resist her daughter. If there was anything valuable in her life besides money, it was her daughters. So Cosette was allowed not only to keep her dress, but to put on Azelma's new stockings.

"Thank you, little sister," she had said, and she had smiled that sweet, pure smile that is becoming rarer even in small children now.

Eponine, who was helping Gavroche at this moment, did not notice the argument between her mother and sister. She and Azelma seemed to share spheres of influence here and were like guardian angels for two orphaned children. The difference was that Cosette was orphaned after Fantine's death, and Gavroche was orphaned at birth. He was barely in his third year, but he could do a lot on his own. He dressed himself, ate his own food (though Eponine brought it to him), and tried to pack the few things he had. Like all children of this age, he was often moody and whimpering, but the older sister managed to make it so that it did not reach the parent's ears. She did everything possible to prevent her parents from remembering Gavroche's existence, otherwise they would have thrown him out on the street.

They wanted to do the same with Cosette, but the joy that overshadowed the hearts of the Thenardiers, and the persuasions of the younger daughter, made them change their decision to a more favorable one. Money sometimes performs strange metamorphoses with people: it makes some people kinder, and others — on the contrary, angrier; some become generous, others-stingy, and still others do not change at all. With Thenardiers there was something between these things: the acquired avarice coexisted in their souls with a drop of cordiality, which probably arose from the possibility of living as they always wanted.

Thus, one morning in march, Thenardiers and Cosette set out for Paris. On the way, the couple discussed their new home and a better life, as is usually the case with people from the lower classes, Eponine watched the road with interest and watched Gavroche, and Azelma whispered to Cosette, constantly pointing out something that seemed funny to her. The journey was short.

Persons who are prone to adaptability have no problems getting settled in any place where they just want to get settled. Thenardiers was one of these people: as soon as he entered Paris, he found a place that in the future risked becoming, as he himself said, "the best Inn in all of France". It was unremarkable in appearance squash some woman madame Hucheloup, nicknamed "Corinth". It was a solid three-story building, ready to survive several more revolutions. The only trouble was that the interior decoration required serious repairs, but Thenardier, with an impressive capital, was going to correct this small oversight.

While he was discussing certain matters with Madame Hucheloup (who, by the way, had barely agreed to sell her most precious tavern), Madame Thenardier, Eponine, Azelma, Cosette, and Gavroche were strolling along the Rue Chanvrery. Children who had never seen a big city were absolutely delighted with the paved streets, big houses, shops, bakeries, and even pubs. Gavroche, in honor of the trip, dressed in a more or less tolerable suit and boots, constantly tried to break away and run after some carriage. He looked at every Parisian or Parisian woman with a keen interest, and probably made some notes in his head, if a three-year-old is only capable of that. Cosette and Azelma gazed admiringly at every shop window, and remained standing there for five or ten minutes until Madame Thenardier told them to return. Eponine, not so interested in dolls or dresses, counted the floors of houses, the steps of shops, or the buttons on a passer-by's redingot. It seemed that she was trying to remember this city as well as possible: reading the names of streets, the girl said them out loud and was happy when it came out right. Mondetour on the street, almost immediately adjacent to Chanvrerie, Eponine noticed the two-story brick house, painted white. It looked as if it had been built only recently: the window panes still glittered with newness, the wrought-iron gates did not creak with the sound of the wind, and the garden was just beginning to bloom.

"I want to live here when I grow up," the girl said.

Madame Thenardier laughed, and her broad, freckled face suddenly assumed that expression of gentleness which is usually characteristic of mothers.

"Perhaps you will," she replied with a smile, "and me, your father and Azelma will come to visit you, my treasure."

"And Cosette!" Azelma added.

"And Gavroche," Eponine finished.

At this time, Thenardier had just settled the matter with Corinth. He had managed to get it from Madame Hucheloup at a ridiculous price, and now he was insanely proud of himself. Before calling his wife and children to unpack their bags together and plan what their new home would look like, Thenardier drank half a bottle of wine alone. "I can do better," he said to the innkeeper instead of thanking her.

Madame Thenardier was pleased with her new home, and the children were charmed. It was decided to rebuild the halls on the first and second floors, change the windows, roof and stairs, and adapt the rooms on the third floor for bedrooms. "This place has a great location. There will be no shortage of customers here," said Thenardier, unpacking his bags. Even the lengthy renovation of the Inn, which lasted almost three months, did not let the innkeeper's enthusiasm fade. The output was a fresh, neat, as if recently built building with two halls, several storerooms, a large kitchen, a cellar and two bedrooms. The Thenardier's bedroom was the largest of all the rooms, furnished in the latest fashion — with a wide bed, a comfortable table, a spacious wardrobe made of precious wood, and a mirror in a carved frame. Eponine and Azelma's room was almost the same size and finish as their parents - the same comfortable beds, cabinets, carved table and two neat mirrors looked so harmonious that both girls unconditionally loved this room as soon as they set foot on its threshold. The inconvenient narrow staircase leading to the third floor was replaced with a wide one and a comfortable railing was added so that the owners could move between the floors without fear for their lives. The only drawback was that the stairs sometimes creaked softly as they walked, but Thenardiers chose to ignore it.

The whole family, with the exception of Gavroche and Cosette, was thus comfortably settled. But our poor souls were not left to fend for themselves. Despite the fact that Gavroche was given a storage room at the end of the third floor as a bedroom, and Cosette was given a small dark room under the stairs, they were not abandoned or forgotten. Through Eponine's efforts Gavroche's little room had become an acceptable place to sleep: she made him a bed out of her own and brought him a night light so that he wouldn't be afraid to fall asleep alone. Cosette was even more fortunate: she spent her days with Eponine and Azelma when she didn't need to go out, then allegedly retreated to her corner, and at night she returned and fell asleep with Azelma-fortunately, the bed was wide enough for two girls.

On the whole, this unusual family has settled down quite well — perhaps even better than it befits such people. Before Thenardiers now you are facing a difficult choice: to live honestly, like a good parisian family, or to continue what was started in Montfermeil fraud and robbery.


	4. CHAPTER 4, WHERE THE GRANITE STATUE BEGINS TO CRACK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small warning: part of this work (up to chapter 15) it is already written in my native (russian) language. I put it here gradually as I translate, but I also write in russian so that there is something to translate. :D

Sometimes it happens that a person who has spent many years to achieve his goal, loses the meaning of life when the goal is achieved. This is what happened to inspector Javert: after finding Jean Valjean and returning him to hard labor, the former police officer seemed to have lost part of his own life. Along with the fugitive criminal, Javert's severe attentiveness, which only applies to the likes of Jean valjean, went into oblivion.

On the day when the inspector left the Inn of Thenardier, he immediately returned to the Prefecture to report on the successful completion of the case. Night had fallen on Paris at this hour, but the police door remained open. On his way to his office, Javert found two policemen in a long, narrow corridor, talking quietly among themselves.

"They took him away", said the younger one, "and now he's not going anywhere."

"If you run once, you can do it again", the older man said, frowning at his thick gray brows.

Javert looked closer. The young policeman, loud-voiced and dapper, he recognized as Marseilles Pivert. He was a pleasant-looking young man, not yet thirty years of age, but who had already earned the position of Javert's partner and "pupil." It is worth noting that Pivert, considering himself, as he put it, an "apprentice" inspector Javert, tried to copy him in everything. Having learned the favorite of your teacher or, in other words, the Napoleon pose (arms crossed on your chest, and back straight) Pivert began to appear in the office only in this way. In addition, his police uniform, like Javert's, was neatly buttoned up, and his boots shone clean even on rainy days when the streets of Paris were covered with a layer of water and mud. But despite all the attempts to become a "second Javert", Pivert was still a Pivert. By nature, he was not very smart, not very attentive, but very proud, which is not the best quality for a police officer. An interesting parallel could be seen if you decided to compare their surnames: with the General "ver" as hard as granite and as sharp as lightning, the first parts of the surnames had very significant differences. A loud and harsh "J" was juxtaposed with a stupidly mocking "Pi", which most clearly revealed the difference that lurked between the two policemen.

The second gendarme, who was short and old, was named Simon. He was the type of person who said little, but did a lot, and thus easily gained the trust of others. Inspector Simon, who is about to leave the service due to his advanced age, will not appear again in this story, so there is no point in talking about him any more.

Meanwhile, Javert had stopped by Simon and Pivert and was waiting for the conversation to stop before he could speak for himself. The cold attentiveness in the inspector's eyes spoke of the remarkable importance of the conversation that was taking place before his eyes.

"You were talking about Jean Valjean?", he asked at last, when Pivert deigned to be silent.

Both policemen nodded.

"Jean Valjean was assigned the number 13891. From now on, he's in penal servitude for life," Simon said.

At these words, something inside Javert snapped: the way thin ice, warmed by the spring sun, breaks if you step on it with your foot.

"How long ago was he taken away?" the inspector asked.

"Two hours ago," said Pivert, resuming his "Napoleon pose". "He kept talking about some letter and some Cosette who would be ill-treated. He didn't care about himself at all: he even refused water". The young man exhaled, running his hands through his clumsily grown brown sideburns. "I thought he was crazy."

Javert just exhaled and closed his eyes, feeling a sense of emptiness overtake him.

"Thank you, Pivert," he said coldly, nodding. "Simon".

Once in his office, Javert settled down at his desk out of habit. He was sick of worrying thought inspired by Jean Valjean. It is worth noting that the need to reflect in itself weighed on Javert, and therefore the moments of mental anguish became almost the most difficult in his life. He thought rarely, blindly trusting the law, which could not deceive anyone. The law was transparent, clear, pure, dispassionate and indifferent, while man was a complex and contradictory being. At this moment, Javert suddenly saw a man in himself: having achieved what he wanted, he felt empty. His natural passion for justice did not begin to go out like a candle, but seemed to waver like a flame if you lightly blew on it with your lips. Javert was in a state of confusion. On the one hand, he was clearly aware that Jean Valjean was not the first or the last person (to use this word to a convict seemed strange even in thought) who broke the law, and on the other, he understood that by catching this criminal, he sealed his own career and summed up all his activities.

It was with this seemingly unsolvable dilemma that Javert left the prefecture. The cold night air didn't touch his stony figure in the least, but the freshness made him breathe out a sigh of relief. The streets were almost empty. Two people were walking on the quai that adjoins the place du Chatelet: the man seemed to Javert to be about the same age as himself, and the girl walking beside Him was hardly fifteen or sixteen years old. At the sight of this happy couple (probably father and daughter), the inspector suddenly remembered Jean Valjean and Cosette. If he had such a quality as humanity, he would surely have pitied the escaped convict and the child who was doomed to "ill-treatment." He could have sighed, been sad, upset, or whispered, "what for?" to the sky, but instead he just passed by. The mask of severity and indifference has long been Javert's second skin, or, more likely, his true essence. Javert did not love, did not hate, and did not regret — he was a sword of justice, an instrument of the law, a granite statue of order, but never a man.

However, as a sculptor's chisel causes cold marble to crack, so Javert's thoughts persistently pushed him to understand the word "humanity". As he thought about it, he did not forget Jean Valjean: silent discussions about the goal achieved led to the need to start something new, and this in turn led to the need to reconsider certain aspects of his own life. Javert sighed. This kind of thinking was not only unusual, but also painful for him. The only solution to the problem he saw was to ignore it: if he continued to work for the police, he would probably find another equally important criminal, and then he would once again become a model of law-abiding.

Crimes don't get solved in the first few minutes, Javert thought as he walked back to his apartment. Time is a useful resource that moves and changes everything as it pleases, so why not time to get Javert a new Jean Valjean? Why shouldn't time erase from Javert's soul the beginnings of what people call "humanity"? Unfortunately, these questions remained unanswered. One thing was clear: the soul of the former police warden had moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> useless fancast: Marseilles Pivert — Callum Turner.


	5. CHAPTER 5, WHERE "CORINTH" TAKES ON SEVERAL NEW ROLES

None of us are used to noticing the amazing speed with which time passes. Youth, like spring, cannot last forever, and one day, on a dark, cold day, any young soul risks turning to dust. With Thenardiers, contrary to any laws, the exact opposite happened — after coping with the state, the will of God (or fate) fell into their hands, they got out of the darkness. Need was replaced by wealth, wood by gold, but the souls almost lost the inner darkness that was inherent in them from the very beginning. Time has made Thenardiers respectable, and the Corinth a very respectable establishment, but it has not completely erased the traces of malice and ignorance.

In 1832, when France was in the throes of revolution, things were going surprisingly well in the tavern. Still new, fresh, and expensively furnished, the building attracted the attention of hundreds of different clients: in the Corinth you could see young workers whispering to each other about something secret, and moderately rich bourgeois, and even students with their bright eyes and old hats. Sometimes bandits came to the Inn. With the latter, the Thenardiers, as people not the most honest, got used to cooperate: the criminals supplied the innkeeper with stolen valuables, and in return received shelter from the "pharaohs" (so in the agro — special jargon of the lower Paris — called the police). This symbiosis was beneficial to both money-hungry innkeepers and bandits, who most of all craved freedom.

One day, on the first of February, in the year thirty-two, a young man appeared at the Corinth. With his hair curled and pomaded, his waist in a glass, and a flower in his buttonhole, he looked like a common street dandy. Anyone who looked at his young, fresh, and ruddy face could exclaim "what a handsome man!" and pass by without noticing the evil gleam in his dark eyes and the brass knuckles in his pocket. This was not just a young and beautiful parisian, but a robber and murderer named Montparnasse. This morning he intended to take down some gold and silver trinkets to exchange for his freedom.

The Corinth was sparsely populated at this hour. The only person at the bar was Monsieur Thenardier, who hadn't changed in a little over nine years. He still had sly eyes, a sharp nose, and an impudent smile, and the money was usually hidden in his left waistcoat pocket.

"Will you please me, Montparnasse? I haven't heard from the Patron-Minette in a week," said Thenardier, deceptively sweet, as a young man with a hat cocked to the left approached him.

The robber handed the innkeeper a small wooden box with a gilded handle. Expensive jewelry jingled inside.

"There are almost a hundred francs here," he said. "Don't try to find out where they came from".

"Just stabbed some rich widow," said Thenardier, and snatched the box from Montparnasse. "Next time, I suggest you kill two."

"I advise you to make sure that your own wife doesn't become an unhappy widow."

Thenardier decided not to answer, but glared at Montparnasse. hiding the box in one of the huge drawers under the counter. As he raised his head to say goodbye to the bandit, the Inn door swung open. Entered the room of the daughter of Thenardier — Eponine and Azelma, the girls seventeen and fifteen years. Nine years have passed since the reader had the pleasure of seeing them, and in those years the sisters have only grown prettier. The eldest, Eponine, had grown tall and slender — her father's thinness had been passed on to her, but combined with her feminine figure, she did not seem at all repulsive. Her hair was brown, almost always loose, and her eyes were brown, often narrowed slyly. Azelma was shorter than her sister, and by the time she was fifteen, she promised to be a very charming girl. Her long black hair was tied in two braids, her cheeks were dimpled, and her expression was much softer than her sister's. Azelma's figure was more like her mother's than her father's, but she had a slim waist that made her look much lighter and more airy. Both sisters were well dressed.

"Hello, Papa," Eponine said, using the last word more in jest than in earnest. "Montparnasse? I didn't think I'd see you free after what you did to that madame in the place Saint-Sulpice".

"You know how hard it is for the police to keep up with me, my dear".

Montparnasse smiled. He specifically replaced the usual "pharaoh" in these places with a restrained "policeman". This young man never spoke argo, even if he understood it perfectly.

"You'll end up in jail one day," Thenardier grumbled with a wry smile. "And maybe at least then you'll stop touching my daughters. They're smart girls, they don't want to hang out with thugs like you".

His age and wealth had an amazing effect on Basil Thenardier: as he became rich, he began to consider himself and his family as something of a high-society person, demanding that everyone else be treated appropriately. There was only one problem: deep down, the innkeeper remained a cruel poor man, clinging to every penny.

"See you later," Montparnasse told him before leaving the Corinth and disappearing into the maze of parisian streets.

After this "Corinth" delved into the nap, which usually happens in the afternoon. The Inn went to sleep, only to wake up in the evening, when the customers would be busy again. The only person who visited him during these hours was Madame Thenardier, who returned from the atelier with a pile of new dresses for herself and her daughters. While she was sorting them out, handing them to Eponine and Azelma, another creature appeared on the stairs — gentle, sad, and transparent. It was Cosette. She had grown up and looked prettier in nine years, but there was still something childlike and innocent in her big blue eyes. Cosette, in spite of all her misfortunes and privations, was not entirely unhappy: through the efforts of Azelma and sometimes Eponine, her living conditions were made tolerable, if not like those of most rich parisian women. As she watched her foster sisters try on new clothes, Cosette suddenly met Azelma's eyes.

"This will be yours," she whispered, pointing to a dark blue dress with wide sleeves.

Cosette beamed. Once again, as in her childhood, she imagined herself a respectable lady with a fortune and the ability to go wherever her heart desires at any time. Dreams were necessary to this poor creature: like flowers, they entwined her and made life a little happier. When Cosette went about her business, which consisted mostly of cleaning and helping out in the kitchen, she didn't feel very unhappy.

As time passed, the day gradually lost its colors, gradually flowing into the evening. After the bulky grandfather clock struck six times, the Corinth gradually began to fill with people. Most of them were workers: after receiving the money, they went straight to the Inn to drink and talk to each other about the injustice of life, women, the weather, drink and high prices, and in whispers about more important things. At this hour, the Corinth was filled with a terrible noise, which included dozens of intoxicated voices. Eponine and Azelma barely had time to serve orders and pour wine for the guests, unwittingly eavesdropping on some of their conversations. Despite the fact that the Corinth was very different from the Inn that remained in Montfermeil, sometimes the Thenardiers saw little difference. The rich decoration was lost in the hundreds of visitors who seemed to make up a single organism in the evenings. The wine tried to run out, but the customers never did. Corinth was their favorite place.

Just as the sun was sinking below the horizon and the sky was turning a deep blue, two more men appeared in the Inn. The first, who could not have been more than twenty-four years old, was very poorly dressed and constantly frowned. His dirty reddish hair was covered by a torn cap. His friend was a little older — strong, tall, with a booming voice and a bright handkerchief in the pocket of his purple waistcoat, he gave the impression of a real talker and impudent.

The two men sat at the end table, talking quietly, so as not to attract too much attention.

"You don't mind your fans, my friend," said the elder, and then he laughed out loud. "What happens if you get kicked out of the factory?

"We have more important things to do", junior said. "We're going to free the world".

The words spoken in a half-whisper in the Inn's depths echoed throughout Paris. Many people — workers, students, beggars, and even some bourgeois — dreamed of liberating France, if not the world. In this quiet evening hour, when the cherished events were still months away, lightning was already darting here and there — sure harbingers of the coming storm. History was made not in palaces, but in pubs, cafes, streets and factories. People were preparing. The people waited.


	6. CHAPTER 6, WHERE THE FAMILIAR COMES TO GRIPS WITH THE NEW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this part, Javert will only appear in сhapter 15.

It is known for certain that any work, whether physical or mental, distracts the mind from heavy thoughts and, if it does not return to a state of complete peace of mind, at least gives a temporary rest. Work is a way to keep your hands, feet, and head busy while earning a living. For most people, this is enough — if you work, you get a well-deserved pay and can afford a comfortable existence, then life is definitely a success. This opinion, which had not changed for years and probably could not change in the future, was held by the majority of Parisians. Wanting to achieve what all poor people crave (namely, wealth), they worked tirelessly, and did not think at all about the essence of their work. But one person thought otherwise. Like a white crow in a pack of blacks, he stood out not only among ordinary workers, but also among his own colleagues. This man almost did not know the value of money, and considered his profession a duty, but not a way to earn money. As the reader will have guessed, this man's name was inspector Javert.

The nine years that have passed since he last appeared in our story have scarcely left an impression on that stern and frowning face. Javert had almost no more wrinkles, and only his broad sideburns were covered with a slight touch of gray. The inspector was still very cold, preferred the Napoleon pose to any other, and wore his uniform buttoned up. The only difference between the Javert of 1832 and the Javert of 1823 was a strange thoughtfulness and a habit of walking along the Seine embankment on fresh, cool evenings. What was Javert thinking about during these walks? The answer that the reader will hear will be as simple and transparent as a tear: about everything. Often various professional questions crept into his thoughts. In recent years, Javert has taken to thinking about the fate of those unfortunate people who happened to be caught and condemned by him. He didn't condone them or feel sorry for them — people don't feel sorry for them at all — but for some reason he kept thinking back to these broken destinies. More often than other lawbreakers, the inspector thought of Jean valjean. Knowing his current number, Javert still couldn't get rid of "24601" and in his mind called this convict exactly that. On that day, which will be discussed later (namely, the nineteenth of February), Javert was destined to say goodbye forever to the man on whom he spent almost ten years of his own life.

That morning, devoid of the freshness that usually comes in the run-up to spring, the inspector sat in the office and sorted through the papers. The day promised to pass quietly: it was difficult to darken Javert's mood, because it was extremely rare to upset a person who was not naturally inclined to be upset. The inspector's expression of stern concentration hardly left his face, and it did not leave even when there was an insistent knock on the office door.

"Come in," said Javert.

He didn't have to think about who the mysterious visitor would be. There was only one person who visited the inspector at this hour, and Javert would have given a great deal to have never seen him again. 

"Documents from Toulon", Marseilles Pivert, who in recent years had risen to the rank of inspector's partner, swaggered into the office and threw a pile of slightly yellowed papers with the familiar lead seal on the table. "The convicts are dying like flies, and it's up to us to sort it out. Imagine if some Jean or Paul steals someone else's purse, we catch him, they convict him and send him to haul barges, and then suddenly he gets consumption and dies. The question is: what does the police have to do with it?

At thirty-six, Pivert was still a boy. When you look at this man he wasn't allowed to give more than thirty: tall, skinny, with a narrow face, a thin nose and bright, watery eyes, ever looking young men, but not held in the service of man. He almost gave up trying to be like Javert, and so ended up being himself — a little stupid, a little arrogant, but moderately honest, attentive and executive. The young inspector was still in awe of the older man, respected him, and listened to his advice, but now he tried to hold himself on an equal footing, naively believing that he was worthy of such an honor.

"What are the statistics?" asked Javert, preferring not to draw attention to the long-winded partner.

Words are wind if you waste them, and gold if you use them for their intended purpose.

"A hundred a year," Pivert said, looking for something in the pile of documents he'd just brought in. "They've had an epidemic of some sort of airborne infection. A person begins to cough, becomes covered with red spots, and after a week or two gives up his soul to God". Marseilles turned the page with a salivating finger. "The last ones we had were 13891, 23714, and 47462".

13891\. 24601. Jean Valjean.

Of Javert for a moment, as if bathed in ice water.

"13891? Are you sure?" he asked, a little quieter than usual. "Give me the document."

Pivert, surprised, handed the papers to his partner, who, too abruptly for himself, gripped them with cold hands and began to read the small, barely legible text. Finally, when Javert reached the list, the same numbers flashed before His eyes again. This could only mean that Jean valjean was now dead.

"Thank you, Pivert", Javert nodded cautiously. "You can go now".

Left alone, the inspector could not move. He was filled with thoughts and, even more terrifying, he felt that he was beginning to feel them. The walls of the large office at that moment pressed on Javert as if he himself, like Jean Valjean, was behind the bars of a prison. One after another of his thoughts came back to him: the realization that his life's work was irrevocably lost, coupled with the realization of the futility of further work. "I have done all that the law required of me," Javert said to himself, and suddenly realized that justice alone might not be enough. For a moment he felt like a man again, as he had for nine long years. The man was thoughtful, confused, desolate, frowning, and finally weak. For thirty long years of service, he clung to the law, with all his heart considering it the highest measure of honor and justice. Born a Gypsy in prison, he chose to punish crimes rather than commit them, and this choice determined his entire life. "To punish" meant "to be just", and "to be just" sometimes meant "to be cruel", and so inspector Javert never learned to feel. The death of Jean Valjean shocked him. He knew that this would happen one day, for convicts rarely live to see their hair grow gray, but he did not think that the fact alone could cause such a storm in his soul.

My journey is over, Javert thought. The path was not a life path, but a professional one, and now it was shaky, like a rope bridge in the wind, and threatened to sink into the abyss at any second. The inspector climbed the bridge in his mind, swaying in the strong gusts of wind. What was called "humanity" pulled him down into a yawning void where there was nothing but darkness and the Ghost of a dead convict. The mind resisted the heart. Law, order, and justice — values familiar to Javert — still held him on the bridge, as if watching to see if the unfortunate inspector was mad. So, the unknown merged with the familiar, and the new — with the old.

Javert's eyes widened. He was still in his office. The sun shone softly from the window directly in front of the desk, and the papers that peever had brought were still gathering dust on the desk. The inspector picked them up slowly and studied them, marking important details with a pencil every now and then. Monotonous work tends to be more distracting than any other, so Javert hardly noticed when evening came. It was a quiet day: no one but peever visited His office, and no one was able to notice the change that had taken place in inspector Javert. On this day, he was thoughtful, cold, quiet, taciturn, and a little absent-minded. An idea so strange and terrible took possession of his mind that even the inspector himself was deeply shocked by it. Javert nurtured this thought within himself, nurtured it, evaluated it, judged it, was afraid of it, but in the end he accepted it. On the way home, he was silent and tried not to think about anything, letting the fresh wind and cold air take over his mind for a while. It seemed that the mind of Javert is gone. At home, in a small apartment near the place du Chatelet, he began to think again about what had occurred to him in the prefecture. The familiar again entered into an unequal battle with the new, winning new and new corners of Javert's thoughts. He didn't get much sleep that night. In his dream, dark, cruel, and restless, he saw again that swaying bridge leading to an inescapable abyss.

Javert awoke in a cold sweat. He suddenly realized that during the night his thoughts, still disorderly and rebellious, had formed a sort of soldier's formation. The idea that had occurred to him yesterday was ready to be realized. Javert got up, put on his best redingot, hat, and boots, and then walked confidently to the prefecture. The post was empty. Javert took a police badge out of his pocket, put it on the table, and left the police for good.


	7. CHAPTER 7, WHERE THE BOURGEOIS TURNS INTO A GAMIN

Sometimes it happens that children who do not receive enough parental love grow up on their own, like roadside grass, and they themselves learn all the skills that they were not deigned to teach. They grow up quickly. Being by nature adults already in their earliest youth, such children are much more adapted to life than the young bourgeois imprisoned in their mansions. But sometimes (very rarely, to tell the truth) it happens that children from rich families are not needed by anyone.

As the reader has already guessed, next we will talk about the youngest son of the Thenardiers — Gavroche. By 1832, he had reached the age of eleven — enough to go from a child who needs help to one who can provide it. Gavroche, despite his parents background and wealth, was always more of a gamin than a bourgeois. On the streets of Paris, in the company of poor and destitute children, he felt much freer than in his own home. Gavroche visited Corinth only when necessary: sometimes he took a little money from the cash register to distribute it to the poor or buy bread for his friends. The boy spent three nights out of four on the street. The "apartment" he had set up in the elephant on the Place de La Bastille was very comfortable. It could comfortably accommodate three people, so that Gavroche could easily come in fourth. There was no fear of cold, rain, wind, or my mother's screams — in short, you could feel what children who are familiar with this firsthand, call "peace".

On that fresh, still wintry day in march, when Gavroche had to visit the Corinth, his heart and mind were restless. At lunchtime, or, to be more precise, at two o'clock in the afternoon, the boy tiptoed into the tavern. He knew that his mother and father were usually asleep at this hour, and that they left the cash register with one of the sisters, hiding the key to it on the bottom shelf of the third spice cabinet on the left. This time it was the same. Of the customers, the boy noticed only four young workers, and they did not even look at him. The Inn dozed to the sound of Monsieur Thenardier snoring like a herd of horses. It seemed to Gavroche that he could hear it even in the street — how else could he explain the fact that there were so few visitors at the Corinth at this hour?

The boy listened once more and went to the cash register with quiet steps. The cash register was a strong wooden box to which Monsieur Thenardier had deftly fitted a lock. "This old man thought that no one would guess!" Gavroche thought to himself as he stood on the table to reach for the key. "Ha, dad, you're a real oaf!"

When it was done and the key creaked softly in the lock, the boy chuckled. He was more than ever pleased with himself and glad that he could at least occasionally help his friends. Gavroche looked around again, took a deep breath, and fished out eight francs. The coins rang pleasantly. The boy expertly tasted each of them with his teeth, and then put it in the pocket of a worn vest. It was necessary to hurry: there were no more than ten minutes left before Papa woke up, and Gavroche did not want to cross paths with him at all. The boy carefully put the key back in its original place, exhaled, and walked briskly to the exit. But when he reached the door, he had to stop. Have you ever felt someone's eyes boring into your back? At that moment Gavroche felt the same. He turned slowly, his hand unconsciously resting on his waistcoat pocket, but all he saw behind him was his older sister. Eponine looked at him with a mixture of reproach and mockery. Gavroche knew that she was already used to such raids and would have no trouble figuring out where the alleged missing money had gone this time. Today everything was the same: Gavroche winked at his sister, slapped his hand on his pocket and whispered "eight", and then disappeared, not seeing Eponine silently criticizing him for his disheveled hair and torn clothes.

Eight francs was a considerable sum, even for Gavroche. Once in the safety of the Rue Mondetour, he took the coins out of his pocket once more, counted them, looked at them in the sun, and whistled. Gavroche did not think that what he had done was dishonest: he had taken money from the rich in order to give it to the poor later, and this was far from dishonorable. If the boy had been educated enough to know the word "noble," he would have given his Affairs such a charming nickname.

But in order to do good deeds, learning is not necessary at all. Gavroche was taught by the street. She, along with Eponine, was his mother, and Paris was his father. The child of these parents was called gamin, and gamin learn from the cradle what is good and what is bad. Turning into a narrow alley, Gavroche suddenly stopped. He was on his way to a bakery near the Place de La Bastille. He was going to buy bread for his friends, but suddenly realized that they were not the only ones who needed it. A beggar was sitting right next to Gavroche, right on the road. His right eye couldn't see anything, his gray hair hung in tatters, and his clothes looked like a bag full of holes and dirt. This old man was infirm, emaciated, ill, and unhappy. Gavroche silently handed him two francs.

Thoughtfully, he moved on. Paris breathed spring: here and there the first flowers were blooming, the grass was green, and parisian women were in a hurry to change their warm winter coats for light raincoats, and then abandon them too. Gavroche did not understand these ladies: he himself was not at all cold in a light jacket, an old waistcoat, a shirt and breeches. Was it because he was wearing new shoes?

As he walked through the streets, Gavroche kept joking, bullying the rich, making faces, jumping up and down, laughing, sticking out his tongue, and sometimes frowning. It would be more accurate to say that a frown crossed his face only once, when the bakery was only a few blocks away. A girl was crouched on the cobblestones near a tall building. She might as well have been twelve or forty-two, for the freshness of youth still struggled with the heavy effects of poverty. She was thin, pale, and unhappy. Her only clothing was an old shawl that showed her thin legs and weather-beaten red hands. The girl looked like a skeleton covered in leather. Gavroche, without thinking, gave her three francs.

Now he had exactly three francs left in his pocket. Gavroche stopped, caught his breath, counted the coins, and went on to meet his friends at the right time. He reached the bakery in a matter of minutes and bought two francs and twenty sous ' worth of bread, noting that the clerk looked at him with disapproval. "Look, you're trying to take my measure!" flashed through Gavroche's mind. But he didn't say anything.

On the Place de La Bastille, to the elephant, the boy arrived almost on time. He brought with him his usual gaiety and a whole loaf of fresh white bread. He was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of kids of all ages. The gamins, the children of Paris, saw in Gavroche their elder brother, and followed Him everywhere. He saw it as a kind of homage, but he wasn't proud of it at all. Pride, he thought, is the work of fools in their finery.

"Hello, Nave! Hello, Jacques! Hello, Louis!" was all Gavroche could manage to mutter as he handed each of them a portion of bread. "Eat!"

Five or six children surrounded him and sat down so that Gavroche was in the center. From an early age, he was able to attract attention, could easily interest and even like, but never used it for bad purposes.  
"Where did this bread come from?" Nave asked, pock-marked, red-haired, and pale from constant malnutrition.

"From a bakery on Saint-Antoine. The bread is good, but the baker is bad".

Nave frowned.

"Yesterday he sent me, Jacques, and guy away, because we came in to warm up and we didn't have enough money to buy bread. And this old man", the boy's voice rose and his thin hand clenched into a fist, "threw us out!"

Gavroche's face took on a serious expression. He exhaled, ruffled his unruly dark hair, touched his vest pocket, and nodded quickly.

"I didn't like it right away!"

With these words Gavroche took leave of his friends and set out on his return journey. An idea was forming in his mind that was both bad and fair: whoever had offended his comrades would have to pay for it. With this thought in mind, Gavroche started for the Rue Saint-Antoine. When he reached the same bakery he had been in before, the boy stopped. There were no people nearby. Gavroche picked up a huge boulder from the ground, threw it right through the window of the bakery, and ran to the side so as not to hurt himself. Immediately, there was the sound of broken glass, and small fragments flew in all directions with amazing speed. Where the window had been, there was now a huge, crooked hole. Gavroche smiled, pleased with his work.

As he turned into the Rue Saint-Paul, he began to sing in a clear, clear voice:

On est laid à Nanterre,  
C'est la faute à Voltaire,  
Et bête à Palaiseau,  
C'est la faute à Rousseau.

Evening was slowly falling on Paris. The sun was now trying to disappear below the horizon, and the cool wind, which was familiar for this time of day, blew with renewed force. The city fell into a short sleep, only to Wake up again later in the evening. Gavroche didn't love these clocks exactly the same as didn't like the silence. He felt alone in the silence. The noise and voices aroused in him a desire to live, to act for the good, and to continue what he had worked so hard to do. In the sounds that Paris made, Gavroche saw life itself. Isn't it true that only the dead can't make any sounds?

In order to wake up a little and feel the power that lurks in the city streets even in the evening, Gavroche turned in the direction of the Sorbonne. He didn't go there often, but he knew that there were always a lot of students walking around the University. Students are people, people are conversations, and conversations are useful new information that will almost certainly come in handy somewhere.

Gavroche was satisfied with his conclusions. His quick feet took him to the Sorbonne in the early twilight, and he cursed three times the scoundrel who would not light the street lamps. In the semi-darkness, Gavroche could not see clearly, and each image became a blur rather than another student.

Unfortunately, there weren't many people here that night. Gavroche sat down on the steps and listened, but all he heard were two completely unfamiliar male voices. He turned at the sound and realized that the speakers were standing very close to him, on the approach to the stairs where Gavroche was sitting. He squinted to get a better look at them, but all he saw was the blond curls of one and the glasses of the other.

"We must act," said the first. "There's less time. Soon we will have to take up arms".

"No doubt," said the other, with a slight nod.

"Tomorrow night at six o'clock", the blond stranger emphasized the word. "We're supposed to meet at the Musain."

Then they talked about something else, but Gavroche has ceased to listen to them. Something important had just happened in front of his eyes-he knew it intuitively, almost by accident, from whispers and half — tones. I still have a lot of questions in my head: why do students need weapons? what's so dangerous about to happen? where is the "Musain"? Gavroche did not know any of this, but now he was obliged to correct this mistake. He wanted to participate in something important and, perhaps, do something useful for these serious students. He sat on the steps for a while longer, then got up and walked toward the Corinth. In order to think about important things, it does not hurt to have a warm bed.


	8. CHAPTER 8, WHEN INNOCENT SOULS AWAKING FROM THEIR SLUMBER

The wise man who once said that spring is a time of flowering, love and life, was right. In the spring, everything becomes more alive, and the souls that sleep like unopened flower buds finally wake up from their slumber.

This happened to a young and pure soul, which will be discussed later. Another soul — just as pure, but more courageous, "alive" and enterprising-never fell asleep.

Young Gavroche, who for the third day had been burning with the idea of finding the mysterious cafe "Musain" and listening to what the students gathered there were talking about, was not going to deviate from his goal. He spent the night in the elephant and woke up surprisingly refreshed: a fresh march wind was blowing in his face, and his stomach no longer ached from hunger. There were only forty sous left in the pocket of his threadbare waistcoat, but Gavroche planned to replenish it soon. In one leap, he left his makeshift apartment and, after saying goodbye to Nave, who was chewing vigorously on yesterday's bread, went about his business. There were a surprising number of people in the Rue Saint-Antoine in the early hours of the morning. Among the others, Gavroche noticed a young workman whom he had already seen once at the Corinth. The boy listened, hoping that he would say something useful, but the boy was silent. He was looking intently for a store among a neat row of bakeries, bakeries, and pubs. Gavroche turned away and went on. Paris was buzzing as it usually does in the morning: fiacres hurried along the cobblestone road to different parts of the city, important bourgeois people crowded around the shops, and here and there a flock of grisette girls ran by. Paris had a hundred faces, and Gavroche wanted to see them all. In the young workers and students, he saw the face of enlightenment-inspired, slightly frowning, still breathing youth and freshness. In grisettes and young ladies — the face of beauty, in begging beggars-the face of poverty, and in pompous as turkeys, the rich-the face of arrogant indifference.

Unfortunately, for some reason, the latter type of person wanted to meet Gavroche: the baker, whose window the boy had previously put in disrepair, somehow managed to recognize him and even calculate that the broken glass was his work. The word is an amazing thing. Some inconspicuous lady, who had the misfortune to notice Gavroche for an act of vandalism, told her friend about it, who in turn told her husband, and already the husband turned out to be a good friend of The ill — fated baker.

Anyway, Gavroche ran. He had developed a talent for running fast. He was one of those people who often did things after which you should either hide or run away. This time the boy trusted his feet: they were fast and fast, carrying him along noisy streets, narrow alleys, half-empty alleys and crowded boulevards. Gavroche had a cheeky smile on his face. Despite the baker's shouts, he was not at all ashamed of the broken window. The act of justice is done — the offender is avenged — the deed is done.

When the voice of the owner of the bakery ceased to be heard, and the breath began to fail from the long run, Gavroche stopped. It was not far from the Rue Vaugirard, directly opposite the Luxembourg garden. A neat row of houses stretched forward in an endless ribbon, but Gavroche chose one-two-story and stone, with a small garden overgrown with wild lilies. Wide wrought-iron gates made it difficult to see all the details of the mansion. If they hadn't been there, the boy would have noticed narrow, light windows, a few sloping steps, and a neat roof that had recently changed from brown tiles to dark gray masonry. But at this moment, the boy was only interested in the fence. Tall-almost as tall as a man — it seemed impregnable, but the numerous recesses, which together formed an elaborate pattern, made it almost easy to climb to the top, and if you like, to get to the other side. Gavroche looked at this fence with interest, and then, with a few quick movements, went up to the top and sat down there with the air of a king looking down on his Kingdom. He thought about the carelessness of the rich people who lived here, about the Musain, and about visiting his sisters today. For the first time all day, Gavroche was calm and quiet.

But peace never lasts long-sooner or later something will arise that deliberately or not quite destroys it. The owner appeared in the doorway of the mansion. He was an elderly man, who, nevertheless, could not be called an old man: tall and strong, he had a confident gait and sharp features, which seemed to become even more sharp when this bourgeois noticed Gavroche.

"Get down," he said coldly, but in a low voice, and the boy, who was sitting with his back to the man, turned abruptly. "This is no place for crooks like you".

Gavroche grimaced at him fearlessly.

"And you, Monsieur, try to reach me yourself!" 

With these words, he quickly began to move his feet, finding himself in one part of the fence, then in another. Gavroche wanted to jump down and be on the other side of it, right in the beautiful garden, but this time he decided not to risk it. The bourgeois stood silent, and only looked at him with his cold, pale blue eyes.

"Get lost," he said again, and this time he raised his voice a little.

Gavroche finally stuck out his tongue at the rich man and deftly jumped off the fence. These, he thought, are not only the poor who suffer, but the whole of France. We stand still because it's better for them, and they take it for granted, thinking that they rule this world. Gavroche sighed. He thought again of the students at the cafe Musаin and promised himself that he would find him today.

The boy looked around. The Luxembourg garden spread out before him. Wide alleys alternated here with narrow and deserted ones, and on a walk you could meet anyone from a beggar to a rich courtier. Gavroche plunged into one of the deserted alleys that ran along the fence of the nursery. He went to one of the benches at the very beginning of this alley and was about to sit down when he heard muffled voices nearby.

"So you love me?" A man's voice asked, low and agitated.

"Shut up! You know that!" A woman's voice answered in a half-whisper.

At that moment two figures appeared in the alley. A dark-haired young man in a fresh redingot led a girl in a light blue old merino dress by the arm. They were both happy and scared at the same time; the same delicate blush shone on a pair of delicate cheeks. As the reader has already guessed, they were Marius and Cosette.

They had met here before, when Cosette went shopping for Madame Thenardier and Marius took evening walks. Each meeting turned into a game of looks, and no one could say exactly at what point they were both struck by love. Cosette, inspired with a new feeling, was completely ignorant of its nature. She did not know whether it was good or bad, fatal or salutary, but every time the slightest opportunity presented itself, she hurried to the Luxembourg gardens. She knew — he would be waiting for her there.

Love was Cosette's salvation. Living in the midst of pain and oppression, she did not know true happiness. This pure, bright, and tender soul was cornered, crumpled, and thrown away, but the new thing that happened to it this spring brought it back to life. Now Cosette, who had once considered herself ugly, has blossomed before our eyes-happiness sometimes performs amazing metamorphoses with people, turning something ugly into truly beautiful. The light of love in her blue eyes made Cosette one of the first beauties of Paris. It was hard to find a girl as pure, soft, and fair — she looked like a diamond in a pile of street stones.

Only at that moment did Cosette know that she was loved. The silence between her and Marius was followed by outpourings. They told each other all their dreams, their raptures, their ecstasies, their dreams, their longings, how they adored each other from afar, how they longed for each other, and how they were upset when they could not see each other. When they felt perfectly close, they talked about everything that was in their hearts. The coolness of the morning was replaced by the warmth of the day, as Cosette's heart thawed and opened to love.

When she had said everything, and he had run out of words, she asked:

"What's Your name?"

"Marius. And You?"

"Cosette".

In order to love, it is not necessary to know the name of the object of your love. Thus, Marius and Cosette met after their hearts were united, and the bond created in heaven only became stronger. From now on, the name "Marius" became for Cosette more beautiful than any music, as well as for Marius — the name "Cosette". The clock in the Luxembourg gardens seemed like moments, and Cosette did not notice at all when the clock in the place de Vaugirard struck four times.

"I have to go. When will we meet again?" she asked, looking sadly at Marius.

"Tomorrow night," he said with a sigh. "I need to go to the cafe Musain and discuss some business. Come to the stone bench right outside the building, if they ask — say that you expect Marius Pontmercy".

Then the young man patiently explained the way to the girl, and the two souls, bound together by heaven, parted only to be reunited later. If anyone had come to this very alley at that moment, they would not have seen the two lovers, nor the boy hiding in the shade of the trees.


	9. CHAPTER 9, WHERE FREEDOM TAKES SHAPE

The Corinth was crowded. Anyone who happened to be there by some absurd chance on this fresh spring day would say that the Inn seemed to have a second wind. All the tables were occupied by young workers and loud-voiced students, and some by arrogant bourgeois who had a habit of twisting their noses if they didn't like something. The thenardiers could barely manage their orders: Eponine and Azelma, quick and quick-footed, did not have time to serve customers on time, and they either cursed loudly or left the place altogether. Madame Thenardier, standing as stately as a ship at a little distance, was furious. She was not angry because of the number of customers, because most of them still stayed and gave Thenardier at least fifty sous, and not because the daughters did not have time to sort out the food and wine. She didn't know how to be angry with her daughters. There were only two unfortunate souls in the world who could provoke Madame Thenardier's wrath: Gavroche and Cosette. She didn't think about her son at all at that moment: the boy hadn't been seen for about a month, successfully avoiding the company of his own mother. He was lucky in a way: unlike Cosette, he was not needed. He, in the opinion of the Thenardiers, was not useful to them in any way.

"Well, where is this scoundrel? I told you long ago that you should lock it up at night," Madame Thenardier grumbled, walking along the wall.

Despite the fact that this woman wore expensive clothes, gold jewelry and pure white gloves, you could still feel the bitterness that is characteristic of the poor. Her red curls were barely curled, and she had an unkempt shock of hair, and a fashionable maroon dress that looked like it was in tatters.

Madame Thenardier paused in thought, put her hands on her hips, and called out to her daughters. They walked slowly toward her, tired and flushed.

"Maman," murmured Azelma, looking around uneasily, "we must go back. More orders will arrive soon".

"If we don't bring them wine, they'll take it themselves, and they won't pay," Eponine added, pointing at the drunk with the rapidly emptying bottle.

Madame Thenardier waved her hand. She thought that a couple of people who didn't pay wouldn't do much damage. This was the main difference between her and her husband: Basil Thenardier, even as a rich man, continued to shake over every sou.

"You work for me for three people, and that's no good at all," said Madame Thenardier. "Where did that thing go? As it is... Colette, Courgette…"

"Cosette," Azelma corrected.

She didn't like it when her mother insulted this poor girl.

Madame Thenardier nodded, a look of utter contempt on her face.

"Have you seen her?" 

"At seven o'clock in the morning, she disappeared for a cloth and did not appear again," shrugged Eponine, who was almost indifferent to the fate of Cosette.

"Well, then," said Madame Thenardier loudly, "find her for me. You, my girls are smart… And I'll pour the wine for these fools myself". 

Eponine and Azelma looked at each other in surprise. They had no idea where Cosette might be right now, but they also thought about how nice it would be to go for a walk for a while.

"I can't promise we'll find her," Eponine said briskly, but she nodded.

"If you find it, you'll get a new necklace. I looked at a few when I went to the jewelry store," Madame Thenardier smiled slyly and looked at her daughters.

The girls looked at each other in surprise, and after saying goodbye to their mother, they left the inn. Eponine, who didn't need any jewelry at all, murmured softly: "Your necklaces, maman, still don't guarantee anything!»

The day was sunny, but not hot. A fresh east wind was blowing, forcing him to put on his raincoat, but later-to take it off, enjoying the warmth familiar for the end of March. Eponine and Azelma, dressed only in dresses, but not at all cold, walked at random. After passing the Rue de La Chanvrerie, they turned into the busy Rue Rambuteau, full of expensive shops, shops, and taverns. Eponine knew that the way to the store where Cosette had been told to buy the cloth was through this area, but she wasn't sure if she and Her sister would find it there. Cosette was obviously keeping a secret that no one in the Thenardier family could understand. The only exception was Gavroche, who had unwittingly witnessed her conversation with Marius. At this hour, he was on his way to the Corinth to get some more money from the cash register. Turning off the Rue Saint-Denis, he found himself in the Rue Rambuteau.

"Why aren't you working?" He asked his sisters as they passed.

"Maman gave us a task, so we're busy," Eponine said with a smile, and leaned forward to pat her brother's hair. "Where are you going?"

"Rob your parents!" Gavroche said with mocking dignity, and thought about it, hiding his hands in the pocket of his old waistcoat. "What's a task?"

"Asked Cosette." Azelma sighed, looking as if she wasn't happy with the case.

Gavroche brightened up.

"What if I know where your little bird is?"

The sisters paused, but their eyes seemed to say "go on".

"She has a date with a tall, black-haired gentleman today," the boy said glibly. "He was muttering something about the Musain in the place Saint-Michel. Those doves were whispering so softly that I could barely hear them! Such they are…"

Gavroche did not finish, interrupted by an exclamation of surprise from his sisters. Azelma couldn't believe that Cosette was really in love with someone, and more than that, someone was in love with her. She herself sometimes dreamed of such meetings while reading one of her mother's old novels. Eponine only chuckled, indicating one serious difference between the sisters: if the younger one, like a flower about to open, expected love, the older one did not think about it at all.

On the way to the place Saint-Michel, the sisters hardly spoke to each other. Each of them was preoccupied with their own thoughts. The sun was gradually sinking, urging them to hurry — the prospect of walking home, groping for turns and houses, seemed very unpleasant. When Eponine and Azelma saw the elongated one-story building with the leaning sign "Musain", they stopped and exhaled in unison.

"Are you sure?" Azelma asked softly, trying to get a closer look at the cafe.

Eponine didn't answer, but moved forward in silence, dragging her sister with her. There are times when boldness goes hand in hand with recklessness, but the elder Thenardier was both brave and prudent: she was not stupid at all, and therefore knew what to fear.

The Musain was sparsely populated. Of the six tables that occupied the dim room with its narrow windows and low ceilings, only two were occupied. Eponine and Azelma moved cautiously across the creaking floor, peering at the blurred faces of the customers, but none of them recognized Cosette. They met only one girl — plump, fair, and smiling, but she could not possibly be the one they were trying to find.

Suddenly Eponine noticed a narrow passage. In the far wall of the cafe, she found a recess that looked as if the door had been forgotten to fit. This opening was followed by a long, narrow corridor that could barely accommodate two people.

"Come on," she said to Azelma, and pointed with her head to where the long dark passage began.

She was not a big fan of adventure and preferred a well-adjusted order of things to spontaneity. At this moment, the last thing Azelma wanted to do was ruin her new light brown dress or ruin her newly braided braids. Eponine, on the other hand, paid no attention to her hair or her clothes, and therefore walked along the corridor with the amazing calmness of an ignoramus.

"There's something else," she said in a half-whisper when the corridor finally ended.

The small but strong wooden door that stood in the way of the sisters was locked. Eponine was convinced of this when she gave the metal handle a gentle tug four times in a row. She was already upset, angry, and a little disappointed when she noticed a narrow strip of light coming through the door. In the semi-darkness in which the sisters found themselves, this light proved to be saving — like the stars shining in the sky, lead a traveler lost in the forest home. Eponine listened. There were voices outside the door.

"There will be no darkness in the future, no sudden upheavals, no savage ignorance, no bloody retribution," said a clear male voice. "There will be no more Satan or Michael the Archangel. In the future, no one will kill, the Earth will shine, the human race will love. Citizens! He will come, this day when everything will be harmony, light, joy and life, he will come!"

The last two words were spoken so loudly that Eponine recoiled from the door as if struck by lightning. There, behind the wall, something was happening that she didn't understand yet, but was already surprising and inviting. Just as a small child is drawn to everything that it doesn't understand, so Eponine felt a momentary desire to knock on the door and be there, behind it. Azelma looked at her blankly.

At that moment, new voices were heard outside the door, loud and low, high and low, all blending into one strange melody.

"Let's see what's going on," Eponine said with a smile that was barely visible in the dim light, and raised her hand to knock on the door.

Azelma looked down uncertainly and shrugged. Sometimes, when she needed to make a quick decision, her courage failed her, leaving her young heart confused and uncertain.

"We have to find Cosette, don't we?"

Еponine shrugged her shoulders.

"Who knows, we might find Cosette there, too".

In fact, she was almost certain that Cosette would not be in that room, but that could not mean that the place they had accidentally found would never be visited.

Еponine knocked on the door.

The door swung open, and a streak of bright light lit up the dark corridor. A young man of about twenty-three, of medium height, with curly hair, dressed in a mustard-colored caftan, scuffed boots, and an old hat, was now looking at the sisters. He was smiling.

"Good evening," he said, and Eponine saw his thin brows lift as he looked at her and Azelma. "What can I do for you?"

The door was now almost half open. Еponine was able to see nailed to the wall map, two tables and several persons, among whom there was not a single female. Without waiting for an invitation, she entered the small hall.

"I was wondering what was going on here," Eponine said, and shrugged as she stopped near the exit.

It smelled of ink, wine, smoke, paper, and freedom. The latter seemed absurd to Eponine, but she could not give the smell another name. It seemed to her that the air in this hall was electrified, and soon, when she heard those loud speeches again, some explosion would occur.

But everyone Eponine found in the hall was silent. She counted seven or eight people — all young men, students, or workers under the age of thirty. As Eponine studied each of the unfamiliar faces, she didn't notice that Azelma was standing behind her.

"Come and find out," said the young man in the mustard coat, ushering the sisters into the hall.

Suddenly a man rose from his chair. He was tall, with golden curls and hard blue eyes. His voice was as stern as a lesson, and as clear as spring water.

"Courfeyrac, you know that no woman can enter here".

Eponine recognized the voice immediately: the young man who was about to send her away had been talking to his friends a few minutes earlier about the day ahead, equality and freedom.

"But, monsieur," she said with a slight smile, "I have already done it!"

The young man didn't answer. After a quick glance at Eponine, he turned back to Courfeyrac. His face was still good-naturedly mocking, and his old hat was slightly askew. He said:

"Come on, Enjolras, these are just remnants of the past. The lovely ladies will just listen and, if they are interested, talk to us a little," Courfeyrac paused, "sometimes girls are more educated than we are".

Eponine watched the argument with interest, noticing out of the corner of her eye how frightened and confused her sister looked at the young people.

At this time, a third person joined the conversation — short and stocky, with a bottle of wine in his hands and a slightly bleary look, he was smiling slyly, but a little sadly.

"Enjolras, you are too strict," he said, "can't these dear angels stay with us?" With that, the man looked at Eponine and Azelma, then raised the bottle. "I'm Remy Grantaire".

The sisters introduced themselves. Enjolras pursed his lips and nodded to let them sit at one of the tables. The light of the setting sun illuminated an old map of Republican France that covered almost the entire wall. The rays fell on individual regions and cities, and Eponine noticed that some of them were marked with pencil. She didn't fully understand what this meant, but she already sensed that something important was happening here. Perhaps these young people will one day be part of history, she thought, glancing briefly at Enjolras, who was still standing impassively next to the map.

"What do you do here?" Eponine finally asked everyone at once, rather than anyone in particular.

Courfeyrac sighed, smiled, and touched the shoulder of his friend, a tall, sharp-featured youth with short brown hair. This man wore round glasses and simple but well-cut clothing. He smiled gently at Eponine and then at Azelma, and said:

"We are Les Amis De'l ABC".

The sisters looked at the young man with incomprehension. He continued.

"We are friends of the humiliated and destitute, that is, the people. We help them straighten their shoulders and start fighting against the existing order. The way people live now is disgusting, suspicious and hypocritical. We are trying to create a new France, and rest assured, our society is not the only one. It is young, it is small, but it is a step towards a new, even if not very broad yet." The young man paused, as if to make sure his sisters were listening. "I am Combeferre, and my friends — Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire", he pointed to each of the seated men, naming their names, "are the forces that will bring about change.

When Combeferre finished, the room was silent.

"So you're going to start a revolution?" Eponine asked softly, her eyes narrowing as she studied each member of this "secret society."

The light from a few candles lit by Jehan Prouvaire fell on the fair heads, and every glance Eponine saw burned with a desire for justice.

"I hope you won't tell anyone else about this," Combeferre said, "or Enjolras's fears will be justified."

Eponine shook her head. She had a lot of questions. Being aware of the political situation, she understood what these young people wanted, and realized how useful it could be for the country. Eponine had a strange feeling: without fully supporting other people's ideas, she absorbed them and was imbued with them.

"What are your political views?" she asked them all at once, guessing what answer she would get.

"We are democrats," Enjolras said. "Freedom and the people's will are above all for us".

Grantaire, at the far end of the room, made a joke about democracy, and a serious argument broke out between him and Enjolras. Soon, instead of two people, five people were talking — Enjolras, Grantaire, Eponine, Feuilly and Bossuet were arguing about democracy, its origins, and how different people's understanding of the concept of "power of the people" was.

Azelma sat next to her sister, barely understanding half of what was being said. She was well-read, but interested in literature, the arts and science rather than politics.

"Miss you?" Courfeyrac asked, and smiled amiably at the girl. "We don't just talk politics here, my dear. Sometimes Jehan Prouvaire reads us his poems, and Combeferre tells us about scientific discoveries that he has read about somewhere".

"Oh!" said Azelma softly. "I love poetry! And I love reading, too".

Combeferre perked up. He read everything that came out, and understood most of the Sciences known to mankind. He was a learned purist, convinced that everything, even the most insane human ideas, would eventually turn into reality.

"Have you heard of the electromagnetic telegraph?" Combeferre asked.

Azelma shook her head.

"Will you tell me?"

"With pleasure".

So, "Musain" this evening seemed to be divided into two camps: on the one hand, they broadcast about freedom, on the other — about science. True freedom is impossible without progress, and so by combining the speeches of Enjolras with the stories of Combeferre, one could hear an ideal society, free and enlightened. Eponine and Azelma were like two facets of this beautiful utopia. No one else said a word against their being here; on the contrary, most of the les amis agreed that the sisters simply needed to come here again.

When it was time to say goodbye, it was already deep twilight. As they were leaving the cafe, Eponine and Azelma noticed two silhouettes on an old wrought — iron bench-a man's and a woman's. They spoke in half-whispers, but the sisters recognized them all the same. Or rather, they recognized the girl as Cosette, who had been missing since morning. She saw them, too, and at the same moment turned away from her lover like a startled bird. In the twilight, Eponine could see a bright flush on her cheeks. Cosette didn't move.

"Please don't tell Madame..." she whispered, looking at her sisters with her clear blue eyes.

Cosette's suitor remained silent. His soft features seemed noble, and his eyes were dreamy and naive.

"We won't tell you," Eponine nodded, "but if you go missing again, maman will figure it out for herself."

"Be careful," Azelma added, and smiled fondly at Cosette.

Night was slowly falling on Paris. The blue of twilight was replaced by starry blackness, and the city was falling asleep. Not sleeping at this hour, only dreamers and romantics, but Eponine did not belong neither to the one nor the other. She thought of something else. In this late, dark evening, the vague word "freedom" that she had heard from Inn-goers more than once finally took shape and face.


	10. CHAPTER 10, WHERE LES AMIS DE'L ABC ACCEPTS NEW MEMBERS

Having met with what he is attracted to, just once, a person will never want to part with it again. This is what happened to Eponine: once she visited a revolutionary circle, for some reason she almost immediately felt like a part of it. Loud and bold speeches, grandiose plans, bold looks-all this fell to the heart of a brave and restless girl. She was determined to be there again.

The meeting was scheduled for March twenty-third. Monsieur Enjolras mentioned it in a low voice, and Eponine was not even sure that she was invited. The young men were all telling them to come again, but it seemed more like a courtesy than a formal offer. Eponine wasn't particularly worried about that, though. Having at once one of the most useful and most vile qualities in the world, and otherwise-impudence, she paid little attention to other people's whims.

Anyway, at five o'clock in the afternoon, the Thenardier sisters went to the cafe Musain to be there at six o'clock sharp. The mother, who was standing behind the counter at the time, naively (if only people like her are naive) believed that her daughters had gone for a "walk". Janet Thenardier was mistaken, but the error was much easier for her than the truth.

"Are you really going to be a part of what these young men are up to?" Azelma asked her sister quietly as they walked away from the Corinth.

A light wind ruffled her dark braids and fluttered the skirts of her dark green dress with wide sleeves. Azelma seemed almost as innocent and beautiful as Cosette, who had not ventured into the Luxembourg gardens that day.

"Who knows", vaguely Eponine shrugged her shoulders and looked at her sister. "But if something starts… I'm not going to stay away".

Azelma didn't answer. At Musain she was attracted to talk about art and science, not freedom-loving speeches. She preferred human souls to human ideas and aspirations.

The evening fell over Paris like a blue-pink veil. By the time they reached the cafe, the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon. Next to the already familiar one-story building, they noticed a strangely familiar short silhouette. He was waiting for.

"Gavroche!" Eponine exclaimed, looking at her younger brother's disheveled dark hair and old gray vest. "What are you doing here?"

She was surprised, but not angry: Gavroche could be found everywhere, and the courtyard in front of the Musain was not so bad for him.

The boy narrowed his eyes and smiled cheerfully.

"The same as you, sisters," he replied, pulling a battered cap over his head.

"You shouldn't be here," Azelma said uneasily. "It's bad for little boys to listen to such speeches".

Gavroche frowned and pointedly went straight to the door, pretending not to understand what kind of "little boys" his sister was talking about. He barely found the place, and even waited for the right time not to rush home at the first notice. A little surprised, a little hurt and upset, but looking forward to it, Gavroche entered the Musain. The sisters went after him.

The corridor connecting the cafe's front hall and back room was dark as usual. As she led the way, Eponine considered bringing a candle next time. As soon as she stopped, Azelma and Gavroche did the same. They froze when the older sister knocked three times on the heavy door. A thick fog, otherwise known as tension, hung in the air, and for a long minute no one could speak.

Finally the door swung open. Behind her stood a tall young man with round glasses carefully pulled down over his nose. His name was Frederic Combeferre, and, as the reader will remember, he was the right-hand man of Enjolras himself.

"Good evening, mademoiselle Thenardier. And the second mademoiselle Thenardier," he said with a faint smile, glancing at Azelma and Eponine in turn. "I'm glad you've decided to join us again".

Gavroche stepped out from behind his older sister.

"Hello, sir!" He lifted his head to meet the gaze of his new acquaintance. "You accept newcomers, don't you? Don't blame my sisters — they didn't know I was going after their petticoats!"

Combeferre smiled, but a spark of concern touched his warm gray eyes. He nodded to let his siblings into the room, then slammed the door again.

Les Amis De'l ABC this evening gathered almost in full force. All that was missing was Feuilly, who had been delayed at the factory, and Bossuet, who was probably in another mess. Nothing had changed: the map, dotted and marked, was still on the wall, and the room was still fresh and free. Eponine looked at all the familiar faces with a smile and greeted each of them as she sat between Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Azelma took her place at Combeferre's side, while Gavroche remained standing, wondering who he should join.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" He said in a clear, childish voice and tried to make a bow. "My name is Gavroche, and I really want to be of service to you. I may be small, but small people can be good too! We'll go where you'll never go in your life and do something that will make your eyes pop!"

Tired of this loud tirade, the boy paused and looked expectantly at Enjolras. In it, Gavroche, who knows how to understand people, correctly identified the "main" from the very beginning.

Enjolras stood silent for a few seconds, looking at the boy sternly, almost searchingly, with his blue eyes, and then nodded confidently.

"We may need gamin help," he said. "So if you're brave enough to do what we're doing, you can stay."

Gavroche clapped his hands joyfully and sat down next to a curly-haired youth in a mustard-colored redingote.

"Did you hear that?" He exclaimed. "Did you hear that? Monsieur-mustard-caftan, Monsieur-red-caftan received me!"

"You can call me Antoine," Courfeyrac chuckled, and patted Gavroche's unruly hair. "And his name is Etienne. Although... Let it be Monsieur Enjolras, if you still want to live in this world".

Gavroche grimaced, and Eponine, who was sitting next to her brother, turned slightly in surprise in the direction of Courfeyrac.

"So that's his name!" She said with an amused smile, and glanced at the back of the room, only stopping for a moment at Monsieur Enjolras, who was at that moment explaining something briskly to Prouvere and Baorel. It was as if a heated discussion was going on in the cafe: one person was talking about something, another was arguing about it, a third was trying to interfere, a fourth (probably Grantaire) was questioning everything, and a fifth did not agree with any of them. The voices came together in one continuous hum, but there was no chaos or confusion in it. Important things were decided here. The fate of the country was decided here.

"How about a drink? General Lamarque will not be relieved by your conversation, and old Louis-Philippe must not touch us at all."

Gavroche looked at him in surprise and nodded cheerfully, holding out his hand.

"What a beautiful place!" He smiled broadly. "Here you have important things to do, and wine!"

Eponine slapped her brother lightly on the arm and looked at him in a way that would have made any thought of a drink go out of her young head.

"No wine for you! Remember our father. Do you want to be the same?"

Gavroche frowned and said nothing. He decided to listen carefully to everything that was being said here, so that later he would be useful and prove that little people are also capable of much. The boy looked from Monsieur Enjolras, who was talking enthusiastically about arms and the revolt of the thirties, to Azelma and Monsieur Combeferre, who were engaged in some conversation of their own.

"The human soul is amazing, don't you think?" Azelma was saying. "So much can be hidden behind just a word and a look…"

"Any words and any views can be understood correctly if you understand a little psychology," replied Combeferre. "It gives simple answers to complex questions and helps to understand, say, human feelings".

"How do I feel?"

"I suppose you're a little confused."

Gavroche turned away. Enjolras stood directly opposite him, almost in the center of the room. His gaze was stern and focused, and his speech seemed carved out of stone, so true and appropriate was every word. Gavroche thought that at all costs he must make friends with this serious fellow.

"It doesn't hurt to know what we have and who we can count on," Enjolras was saying. "At the meeting the day before last, I assigned each of you a place where our strength has not yet faded. We have no more than two weeks to rekindle the fervor of workers, students, doctors, lawyers, and artists, and make it their duty to join us".

When Enjolras fell silent, most of the students and workers nodded vigorously or even shared their progress aloud.

"Wait," Eponine said suddenly, when the noise had subsided a little. "You've talked to students, doctors, lawyers, workers, even freemasons... God knows who else! But there's something else you didn't consider".

"What is it?" Enjolras asked with a slight frown on his pale brows.

"Common people. Those who were not lucky enough to master a decent profession, and they were as if thrown out of this life. Poor tradesmen like widows, orphans, gemany, even the poor… Individually, they are weak, but together-wow, what strength!"

Gavroche brightened up. He looked at his sister with a beaming look of gratitude and pride.

"And what do you suggest, Mademoiselle?" Enjolras's voice was thoughtful now, and his eyes were fixed on the newly arrived brother and sister, who were surprisingly talkative and surprisingly similar.

"Gavroche and I will add a little to your army, Monsieur," Eponine said with a slight smile. "We will repeat your speech on the square, but we will talk in another place and with other people. You'll see: the result will surprise you!"

"I told her about the performances in the square," Courfeyrac interjected, then laughed merrily.

Enjolras paid little attention to his words. He was only mildly surprised, and nodded gravely to Eponine and said "try it."

Thenardier's words, like logs thrown into a dying fire, gave rise to more and more discussions. There was once again an atmosphere of productive disarray in the Musain: new truths were being born in arguments, as the great Socrates would have said. Candles were burning. Points were added to the old Republican map. Les Amis, young and fearless, was preparing for the main task of its short life: they were going to liberate France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is a small part of the interaction of the same dream team. ;)


	11. CHAPTER 11, WHERE A LITTLE LIGHT FALLS ON THE PATH OF THE PEOPLE

Eponine kept her word. She and Gavroche really started working on the speech they were going to make to the people. The young but tenacious mind of the brother joined with the freedom-loving spirit of the sister, forming something like an explosion. Words dictated by the mind mixed with the dictates of the heart, and the whole looked like a symbiosis of both. Paper was torn. Feathers creaked. One by one, the candles turned into puddles of wax. Eponine and Gavroche vied with each other, and Azelma made mistakes and inaccuracies. All this lasted exactly three evenings, and for exactly three evenings the Thenardiers endured their youngest son. They did not want to turn him out of the house now, as they had done before, and even exchanged a few words with him, but they still looked at him with disdain. Gavroche ignored them, and as soon as the clock struck ten, went to the second floor to continue what he had come to do.

Three days seemed like three hours. Everything was finished quickly, written intelligently, and prepared well. The performance was scheduled for wednesday afternoon, and thanks to Gavroche's quick feet, les amis also learned about it. Eponine found a suitable place — a small ground on the Rue Mondetour, located near the large white house that she remembered from her childhood. The mechanism was started, the gun was filled with gunpowder and loaded. The most difficult thing remained: to shoot.

The morning of the appointed day was cold and overcast.

"A storm is gathering," Azelma said, looking out the window. "Do you think anyone would come out of the house in this weather and listen to you?"

There was no disbelief in her voice. Only the doubt that snaked under his chest burned his young heart.

"People will hear us," Eponine said confidently, and her eyes were so determined that Azelma didn't dare argue.

Packing was fast. Brother was constantly talking to sisters, and the Thenardiers looked at the children with bewilderment, going somewhere in such "bad" weather. Cosette had been warned by Azelma, and thought of going with them, but only because a certain Monsieur Courfeyrac had told her that Marius would also be in the square.

"If you don't come back in four hours, you'll regret being born," Madame Thenardier whispered to Cosette before saying goodbye.

Cosette nodded and looked down, but when she met Azelma's gaze, she calmed down. The four of them went to the square to leave the two in the center of it — not in the midst of the crowd, but among those desperate and desperate who would need the words оf Eponine and Gavroche.

The rain was getting heavier. Warm but frequent drops fell on the inspired faces of the brother and sister, now standing in the center of a small semicircle. Here, in the coolness, dampness, and grayness, you could make out a dozen extinct looks and a couple of dozen lowered hands. Impoverished shopkeepers, widows, the poor and gamins convened, probably Gavroche, staring in anticipation. Azelma was partly right: the number of visitors was not as significant as Gavroche had thought, but more than Eponine had secretly expected. She looked at the audience with a bold glance, and suddenly it seemed to her that the mocking shadow of Montparnasse passed among the city's poor. Some of the Les Amis De'l ABC were also found: Eponine noticed Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Joly talking in low voices. For a moment, resentment touched her heart, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"People!" Eponine exclaimed, her clear voice echoing down the street. "Today we will talk about freedom. On equality. About dreams. And that you can implement them all, if only you have the strength to get back on your feet!"

Three more onlookers joined the crowd, and there was a roar of indignation. Gavroche took the floor.

"Gamins!" he said loudly, looking at the group of ragged children. "You are constantly being kicked, kicked in the neck, punched in the nose, and kicked like rats. Are you rats? Somehow I doubt it! So let's not be offended! Nave, you are a brave fellow! Jacques, you're a smart head! Lou, you have fast feet! All of us here are notorious Braves and entertainers, father-Paris did his best, so let's set him free! And myself, too!"

Gavroche's voice was clear and young, and his thin cheeks, despite the cold, were flushed. He made noise, shouted, spoke, and gesticulated vigorously, clenching his reddened hands into fists every now and then. Gavroche was serious, but he carried himself cheerfully, like a boy. His sister looked at him with a proud smile, and soon began to speak.

"You think that freedom is just a word that doesn't mean anything. You think you'll be miserable, poor, sad, and drag out your miserable existence until you limp to the grave…"

Eponine's voice faltered. Large drops of rain dripped down her face and long hair, falling on her feet, on her hands, and on her once-new dark blue dress. Water got into her eyes, blurring everything around her: from the outside, it might have seemed as if Eponine was overcome with tears. But these eyes did not weep; on the contrary, they looked lively, attentive, and even cheerful, as if they were addressed to everyone standing in the square.

"I didn't know what freedom was before. It seemed to me that we lived by a routine that could not be broken. I thought that if the poor are poor and the rich are rich, it will always be so. The strong will always humiliate the weak, and the weak will always suffer… But one day I met people who opened my eyes."

Eponine glanced at the students and suddenly noticed a new face among them. She could not have mistaken him for anyone else: his blond curls, slightly darkened by the rain, his unchanging frown, and his serious gaze, which seemed interested to Eponine. It was Monsieur Enjolras, and he was looking at her.

The girl continued with renewed vigor.

"Now I understand what we should all strive for. If you rise up, if you believe in yourself, if you become a little bolder, our world will be transformed before our eyes. People will live happily", Eponine looked at the weeping woman in a torn dress and a black handkerchief. "No one will need anything", her gaze turned to the thin old man in rags, "everyone will be able to be happy and love each other, because any of their fears will be dispelled!"

The girl paused, casting a last glance in the direction of Marius and Cosette. He was dreamy, she was inspired, but the fire of life was kindled in both pairs of loving eyes. Eponine smiled. At this moment, her appearance — young, fresh, ringing, and disheveled — radiated the energy of chaos, directed in the right direction. It was a fair wind for the unfortunate, and it carried life to a place where, it seemed, only dust had been left long ago.

The rain eased. The silence was followed by a hum of voices. The people, finding a ghost of hope, raised their heads and rushed to ask questions. Eponine and Gavroche rejoiced in answering them. The square, filled with noise, became a symbol of a new beginning for these unfortunate souls. The raindrops washed away the old, unhappy, and sick things, opening the way to a new life.

"When?" asked a pale young man, covered with old scars and boils, as if from some illness.

He didn't finish the question, but everyone knew exactly what the poor man meant.

This was the first question Eponine didn't know the answer to.

"Soon," she said, her voice full of confidence, " you need to start preparing now, and then no one will delay!"

The young man nodded happily. The stream of questions soon ended, and the sun appeared bright over the square. The crowd, restored to life, began to disperse. At that moment, eponine and Gavroche did not even know how much they had done for the people who had lost hope. They managed to find exactly the words that could awaken life in the poor and raise them from their knees, so that later they could stand up for freedom and a new world.

The street slowly emptied. When there were almost no more people left, and those who were still standing in a semicircle were talking to each other, Eponine went to her sister.

"Something must come of it, don't you think?" she asked with a smile, and only now did she notice Combeferre and Courfeyrac standing side by side.

"You were so beautiful!" Azelma said, grabbing her sister's hands. "I would never be able to perform in front of a crowd".

"You have many other talents," Eponine shrugged and smiled at her brother, who was engaged in a heated argument with his companions. "You, unlike me, will one day become a good wife, mother, and hostess…"

The girl saw her sister's gaze flick briefly in Combeferre's direction.

"You too," Azelma said.

"I don't think so. I'm not interested in matters of the heart. And I don't think there's a madman in Paris who'd fall in love with me".

Azelma laughed, but did not continue the conversation. What was happening to her at that moment could be called a mental turmoil, and she would have said so if she had been able to think straight. Everything seemed beautiful to Azelma, alive, clean and open; she was even more romantic than the previous fifteen years of her life. Something was taking hold of her young heart, but she didn't quite understand what it was.

"We should go home before mother runs in here and flays us," Eponine said at last, when she realized that the conversation was going to take too long.

She called to Gavroche, but he shook his head resolutely: the company of his friends was dearer to him than that of his parents.

"Can we escort the young ladies?" Courfeyrac asked with a cheerful smile and nodded towards Combeferre, who was thinking hard about something else.

"You can!" Azelma exclaimed. "Where is your friend, Monsieur Enjolras?"

"Went somewhere in the direction of the Pantheon," Courfeyrac shrugged. "He likes serious matters of state better than talking to ladies. What a strange fellow!.."


	12. CHAPTER 12, WHERE HE ENTERS INTO AN ARGUMENT WITH THE GOOD

Eighteen days have passed since the brother and sister of Thenardier spoke to the people of Paris. The sun shone even brighter now, and its gentle rays warmed young hearts that yearned for love or freedom. In France, a bonfire was slowly burning, and every day its flame became a little brighter. Everyone knew what this could lead to, both expecting and fearing the coming changes.

Les Amis De'l ABC was still bustling with life. Meetings were called more often, and the "business" under discussion seemed more urgent. Enjolras and his friends knew for sure: the revolution is just around the corner. They prepared, gained strength, and, like sponges, absorbed everything that could somehow contribute to this brave undertaking. Even in the streets, they could now hear the inspiring whispers of ordinary citizens talking about cartridges, carbines, and when to expect a "signal". In those days, scorched by the thirst for justice and the spring sun, parisians lived in expectation. The days dragged on like months.

"I don't think we can start until the end of may," Enjolras said one day at an early morning meeting, "the people are waiting for a battle, but they are not ready to fight yet. We need time. A few more weeks, and those above us will pay with their lives for all the outrages they have already committed. There will be no more violence against the people, and we will finally straighten our shoulders".

The golden-red rays of the rising sun fell on the fair curls and illuminated the noble, firm features. Etienne held himself erect, like a commander of an army, and there was something in his gaze that made you believe every word he said.

Each of the les amis trusted Enjolras, and Gavroche, being still very young, almost more than the others. He had found a most useful use for his boyish zeal: while still a child, he was, almost without knowing it, doing the country good. Right but dangerous ideas were forming in this wild head, as if Gavroche were jumping on barrels of gunpowder, hoping that none of them would decide to explode.

When Enjolras finished speaking, the boy clapped his hands and climbed up on the table. Seven pairs of startled eyes — Eponine, Azelma, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Enjolras turned to him.

Gavroche lifted his chin and said with dignity:

"You know, I read Rousseau at my leisure, like in my song. And this is what he said: "all governments based on violence fall into a ridiculous contradiction: while they want to keep the people in a state of weakness, they themselves want to become strong with their help." Good idea, isn't it, Monsieur Enjolras?"

Eponine looked at her brother in surprise, but said nothing.

"You are very clever for your age," said Enjolras, and nodded, motioning Gavroche to come down from the table.

The boy sat down in a chair between Еponine and Grantaire and fell silent. It is worth noting that the two mentioned in the previous line found a surprisingly quick rapport: Eponine's boldness and impudence pleased Grantaire, and Eponine appreciated the intelligence and gaiety of Grantaire, who was hardly taken seriously in the "Musain". Somehow, a strange friendship had developed between them, which was yet to bear fruit. Azelma, however, became close to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire: the intellectual, the jolly man and the poet formed a fine trio, sometimes diluting the harsh revolutionary speeches. Sometimes, however, the poet was absent, and the jolly man and intellectual turned into the mind and soul of the coming revolution.

On the morning when Gavroche first showed his oratory, les amis, among whom were the Thenardier sisters, did not change their habits.

"Revolution is necessary," said Combeferre in an undertone, "but it is too dangerous. You should not send into battle all who want to shoot with a carbine. We must not put other people's lives at risk. All those who are weaker than us — children, old people, women…"

"Women?" Eponine interrupted, and then, with an offended expression, continued. "Nothing will stop women from going to the barricades. We are not so weak and we can fight if we want to. Not all girls think only about a profitable marriage and expensive outfits".

Grantaire, who did not believe in the good outcome of the coming revolution, looked at the girl with a grin.

"You should spend less time with our Apollo, my dear," he said softly.

Eponine frowned and said nothing, but she noticed Grantaire's single, sad glance at Enjolras.

"And you, my friend, are not well affected by wine," Courfeyrac mumbled mockingly, before slapping Grantaire on the back.

"One day, when my life is worthless, only wine will save it".

Grantaire smiled enigmatically, his gray-green eyes twinkling strangely, and returned to his own thoughts. He thought, as before, of the impermanence, the badness, the weakness, and the meaninglessness of everything around him. To this man, there was little of real value, and even his own life was not on the short list.

Let us leave Grantaire alone with his sorrows and turn to the place where faith and hope play a key role, namely, Enjolras. Freedom, the Republic, equality - all these were the main subjects of his concern and reflection. He lived not a dream, but a desire that became a goal, and in matters of popular will, he was as inflexible as a thousand-year-old oak. But Enjolras, though he did not admit it, was also a worthy friend to everyone who made up his small circle. He was slow to get along with people and rarely trusted them, but the few who got the honor were of some importance to Enjolras. He came closest to Combeferre, a learned purist and logician who had a habit of adding to and correcting any inaccuracies. Combeferre was the unspoken "right hand" of Enjolras. He was close to Courfeyrac, to Feuilly, to Jean Prouvaire, to Bahorel, to Joly, and to Legle, because of the common ideas and aspirations that had taken possession of the bright minds. Speaking of friendship, it is impossible not to mention Thenardier: the younger brother, Gavroche, seemed to Enjolras, even if young, but a promising boy, and his older sister (not the one who preferred to talk about arts and science) — a surprisingly brave and lively girl.

On the day of the morning meeting, she could not remain silent again. Many thoughts were passing through this exuberant head, and as many words were spoken in the face of the amazing circle.

"What do you think is the center of the human soul?" she asked, when Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly began to argue about a better future.

"The desire for freedom," Enjolras said sternly.

"The quest for enlightenment," Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses.

"Happiness," Courfeyrac replied with a smile.

"Love," Azelma said with a sigh.

"Use and courage!" Gavroche exclaimed.

"Good causes," Feuilly said.

"Soul? It's silly to think that there is such a thing as a "soul" at all," Grantaire finished.

There was silence in the back of the Musain. The bright sun now shone down on everyone who came with amazing power, as if exposing a soul that was as full of good as of evil. Everyone thought about their own things.

"What about you, Mademoiselle?" Enjolras asked.

Eponine looked at him with a mixture of surprise and thoughtfulness.

"Life itself, perhaps".

The rest of the day was spent in leisurely conversations, sometimes important, sometimes meaningless, but pleasant. Everyone felt like they were in their own place, and everyone felt like they were part of something subtly important.

When the time came to part, Eponine, Azelma, and Gavroche were among the last to leave the Musain. The older sister was thoughtful, the younger was dreamy, and the brother was already mentally overthrowing the government and hoisting a red banner on its roof. As soon as they left the cafe, the Thenardiers noticed a man. He was waiting for them, looking at them like a fox from around the corner. This man had a new redingot at the waist, a hat cocked to one side, and a spoiled look in his eyes. He seemed to be the center of all the human vices contained in a beautiful body.

"Montparnasse," Eponine murmured. "What do you want?"

Since the Thenardiers had become accustomed to visiting the Musain, they had seen less and less of Montparnasse.

"Is this how you talk to your old friends?" he narrowed his eyes. Now you know, the charming bandit smiled and grabbed Eponine arm, and Azelma with Gavroche whispered "go home."

The brother and sister didn't listen. As they watched Montparnasse lead Eponine down a deserted alley, they felt uneasy, but they knew that the worst was not to be feared: this man worked for their father, and therefore would not dare to harm their sister.

Montparnasse, making sure that no one was listening, leaned over to Eponine and said in a low voice:

"We have a case for you. We'll have to be on our guard while we", he paused for a moment, "but you know who we're working on a little house with."

Montparnasse's eyes twinkled maliciously, and his red lips formed a cruel smile.

"I have heard that a very rich bourgeois family lives in one of the houses in the Rue Vaugirard, directly opposite the Luxembourg gardens. I don't think they'll be upset if they get a little poorer. And if they do... Well, I won't care".

Eponine frowned and pulled her hand away.

"I don't really want to rob someone's house. What if they are decent people?"

Montparnasse rolled his eyes.

"Your new friends have taught you the wrong things," he leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. "You were good, Ponine".

"And now too", Eponine shrugged her shoulders. "But why would I help you?"

"You've done this before. And you know how stupid the old bourgeois usually are. Maybe they don't support your vaunted revolution at all?" Montparnasse chuckled. "What's more, we'll even let them live. You'll just have to stand guard".

Eponine considered, frowned, sighed, and finally gave a curt nod. In that moment, the dark things that she had inherited from her parents awoke in her: her natural cunning and cruelty were hidden in her, hidden behind courage, honesty and openness.

"What time is it?" Eponine asked, almost certainly knowing what the answer would be.

"Tonight at midnight".


	13. CHAPTER 13, WHERE SHADOWS GATHER OVER THE RUE DE VAUGIRARD

The night was warm and fresh. The stars twinkled in the sky, along with the full moon, illuminating the way for anyone who was not afraid to go out at this late hour. Eponine was one of those brave men. At the moment when the clock in the square struck midnight, she had already arrived at the Rue de Vaugirard. Here it waited in the Montparnasse, Brujon, Babet, Claquesous and Guelemer. The bandits prepared for the "case" thoroughly: in the pocket of Montparnasse you could find a sharp thin knife, and Caquesous held in his hands crooked tongs, which thieves call "kerchief". Eponine couldn't see any other tools, but she was sure that everyone had something in their pockets that could break down a door or break someone's head.

"Good loot," Claquesous said in a thunderous voice that should have been a whisper, and glanced at the mansion where they were gathered.

"And the fence isn't high enough for any boy to climb," added the thin, disembodied Babet. "The main thing is not to make a noise".

"You know what to do if you can't do without it," Montparnasse finished in a low, enigmatic voice.

Eponine started. All the while, she stared at the rich two-story house hidden behind an ornate wrought-iron fence. One of the Windows was open, but the light-the main enemy of any thief-was not on anywhere. The street was cool and quiet, familiar to a spring night.

"I think someone promised me that you wouldn't hurt anyone," the girl said seriously.

She tried to look at Montparnasse, but all she found was darkness. The young man was behind her in a flash.

"If no one wakes up," said Montparnasse in a sweet but terrible voice. "Otherwise, I'll have to put them to sleep again, and this time, alas, forever."

Eponine imagined Montparnasse's thin knife taking the life of an innocent elderly couple in one motion, and a chill ran down her spine. It was wrong. To steal a few hundred francs and a few pieces of jewelry was not, in her mind, the same as taking your life: it was one thing to be poor, and quite another to die ingloriously.

Eponine gritted her teeth. With a deft movement of her hand, she seized Montparnasse's wrist, drew him a little closer to her, and whispered:

"If a single soul gets hurt, you'll regret it."

Montparnasse grinned impudently and snatched his hand away.

"What will happen to me?"

Eponine's reply was lost in darkness. Montparnasse, Babet, Guelemer, Brujon and Claquesous, not making a sound, went to the house. Their footsteps were quiet, their movements were imperceptible, and their silhouettes seemed to be disembodied shadows, made up of baseness, abomination, cruelty and vice. Eponine's sharp eyes took in everything that these hideous creatures touched, and only dissipated a little when Claquesous, with his rusty tongs, almost noiselessly broke open the heavy door.

The air seemed thicker to Eponine. She looked forward, then back, then right and left. The street was deserted, but there was a distinct sense of movement in the emptiness. The tall trees that make up part of the Luxembourg gardens cast huge shadows on the street, resembling mythical monsters. It was as if the darkness itself had taken on a soul at that moment, and only the tall oil lamp beside which Eponine stood could save her from it.

The minutes seemed like hours. Eponine had already sung an old tune to herself, danced without moving, and scanned the empty street twenty times.

Suddenly something happened. Eponine felt it before she realized it, and her heart skipped a loud beat. A mixture of excitement and fright gripped the thin silhouette, but the inflamed mind, almost beyond the control of feelings, continued to work hard.

Eponine saw a light come on in one of the ground-floor windows. She even thought she saw a dark shape flitting through the shadows. It was all a delusion, she decided, but she continued to watch the point of light. The bandits were due to finish their work any minute, and Eponine sincerely hoped that the light outside the window was not their doing at all. She remembered that Montparnasse could be quieter than water and lower than grass, if only it really wanted to be.

Curiosity and keen interest pushed Eponine into the house: she still wanted to know the nature of the mysterious light and the wandering shadow that flashed somewhere in the darkness. But her mind kept saying: "wait." And she waited, it seemed, even longer than she should have, not really knowing what that waiting would lead to.

Two or three minutes later, which seemed like an eternity, Eponine heard footsteps. Fast and noisy, they no longer looked like a shadow or an obsession. Something was happening in the house. Eponine slowly approached the wrought-iron gate and listened: the sound grew clearer, and for a moment she thought it was the bandits returning.

But Eponine's expectations were not fulfilled at that moment: a man came out of the house who had nothing in common with Montparnasse, Babet, Brujon, Claquesous, or Guelemer. He was a tall, fair-haired young man, dressed in a white shirt and breeches, but barefoot. He looked around in confusion, but his blue eyes were surprisingly alert and focused.

Eponine recognized those eyes even in the dim light.

"Monsieur Enjolras…"

Her half-whisper, full of surprise, bewilderment, embarrassment, and confusion, seemed no louder than a sigh. Enjolras was silent. For a few seconds they stood on opposite sides of the closed gate, not knowing or understanding what to say. Night, as we know, tends to deprive us of the ability to think intelligently.

"Mademoiselle Thenardier?" Enjolras said at last, looking at the girl in bewilderment. "Eponine? What are you doing here at this hour?"

These words had a sobering effect on Eponine, as if she had been splashed with icy water to wake her up. Now the situation seemed stupid, vile, unacceptable, and completely unimaginable.

Eponine let out a loud sigh before speaking. The temptation to lie at this moment was greater than ever, but something invisible, incomprehensible, and unspeakable kept her from doing so.

"Your house is being robbed," she said softly.

Enjolras frowned.

"How do you know?"

Eponine bit her lip and looked him straight in the eye.

"Try to guess for yourself."

Enjolras's face expressed incomprehension, indignation, and disbelief. Even through the wrought-iron bars of the gate, Eponine could see his face change as the terrible answer slowly took hold of her mind.

"You couldn't," the light of the lantern made his stern look even more severe, but Eponine, already prepared for this situation, bore it without difficulty.

"You're wrong," she said sadly. "I must have disappointed you very much."

Enjolras looked at her carefully and sternly.

"I didn't expect you to do that."

"I didn't expect to see you here", Eponine said softly. "This night is full of surprises. But, you know", she paused, then continued, her brown eyes narrowing slightly, "you'd be making a mistake if you thought I'd let someone steal from you.

With these words, Eponine made a loud sound that resembled a cross between whistling and birdsong, which can sometimes be heard in the Luxembourg gardens. This was the signal.

In less than a minute, five dark shapes appeared at the front door. Eponine easily distinguished them was the Montparnasse, Brujon, Claquesous, Babet and Guelemer.

"Drop everything!" she exclaimed, noticing the full bags in the hands of the bandits, clinking suspiciously as they moved. "Run!"

Montparnasse looked at her in perplexity, and at the same moment a sharp knife flashed in his hand.

Eponine shook her head.

"Don't you dare!" Her clear voice cut through the silence of the night.

Montparnasse stepped back. Glaring at Eponine, he whispered something to the other bandits, and soon all five of them disappeared into the night. The street was empty again. Everything here was as before: the same full moon, the same stars, the same trees, the same gate, and the mansion that didn't look like a house that had survived a botched robbery.

Eponine exhaled.

"You see," she said with a smile, and took a step aside to leave this ill-fated street. "I'm sorry to bother you again, Monsieur".

Enjolras did not reply, but the meeting was not to be interrupted so soon.

An amazing thing is randomness. Things that happen at the right time and in the right place sometimes decide our fate. So it happened this time: before Eponine had taken more than a few steps, she heard an unfamiliar female voice behind her.

"Who are you talking to at this hour? I thought I heard a noise".

Eponine turned and stared in amazement at the courtyard beyond the gate. Near Enjolras stood a statuesque, fair-haired woman of about forty-five, who had probably just risen from her bed. Even in her long nightgown, she looked like a queen, and her eyes were the same as the young man next to her.

"Someone tried to rob us, maman," Enjolras said, and Eponine went back to the fence. "But my friend, Mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier, saw the thieves in time and chased them away".

Eponine froze in surprise. Madame Enjolras, equally surprised, was now looking straight at her.

"You are quite cold, child," she said, and opened the gate. "Why don't you come inside and we'll have some tea? I won't sleep now anyway, and hot tea and pleasant conversation will brighten up the night".

Eponine looked inquiringly at Enjolras, who nodded and then politely opened the wrought-iron gate. The house was even larger than it had seemed at first: wide and bright, it literally screamed about the high status of its owners. No wonder Montparnasse chose this place, Eponine thought as she followed Etienne and Madame Enjolras, who turned out to be named Isabelle. There was little of the tension in the air that had been there before. The stone walls of the mansion seemed cozy and welcoming, and the wide corridors held many family heirlooms, portraits, antiques, and secrets. Unlike Thenardiers, Madame and Monsieur Enjolras must have been rich from the beginning: everything in the house was appropriate, but expensive, and Eponine did not find any of the unnecessary trinkets that her mother was so fond of buying. It was spacious, bright, and clean, but there was something oppressive, heavy, and alien about the high ceilings and stained-glass windows.

The small round dining-room to which Madame Isabelle had brought Eponine and Etienne seemed to the girl one of the most pleasant rooms in the place. Thanks to the candelabra lit by Madame Enjolras, a warm yellow light streamed from the corner, and the two stern faces surrounding Eponine seemed to soften a little.

"So how did you end up on the street at this time?" Madame Isabelle asked, taking three cups from the service.

She chose to make the tea herself rather than wake the maid who had caught a cold the other day.

"I decided to take a walk," Eponine said briskly, momentarily forgetting that this was a lie. "I think better at night, you know".

Madame Isabelle smiled and looked appraisingly at Eponine, and then at her son, who had been strangely silent all this time. The girl seemed unusual to her: she was not at all like other rich young ladies that Isabelle had seen at balls, meetings and receptions.

"Etienne sometimes comes home after midnight, too," she said, and carefully placed a tray with three full cups on the table.

Eponine chuckled and picked up one of the cups, almost spilling the tea on her thin blue dress. Despite the state of her parents, her upbringing was far from what the rich usually gave their daughters.

"Do you think about revolutionary affairs?" Eponine turned to Enjolras, who was sitting next to her, with the air of a connoisseur and a flash of fire in her eyes.

He was calm but silent, probably preferring to watch the conversation rather than participate in it. The question caught him off guard, but Etienne didn't show it, just nodded.

"Sometimes I have interesting thoughts that I later voice in meetings," he said later.

Madame Isabelle frowned at her son.

"It will kill you one day," she whispered.

"I am ready to die if this death is not in vain".

The phrase, said in a low voice, sounded like it was a blow. Eponine felt a strange thrill as the meaning of the words sank into her mind like a truism. They might all die — she knew; but knowing and being aware were not the same thing.

"Every one of your friends thinks the same," Eponine said.

Madame Isabelle looked at the girl in surprise.

"And you too?"

"Me too."

There was a long silence in the dining room, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock. Enjolras, who had finished his tea, was about to break it, but stopped when heavy footsteps came from the back of the corridor.

"We must have woken my father," he said softly.

He was right: a tall, elderly man, dressed in a dressing gown and slippers, entered the dining room shortly after. He seemed sleepy, irritated and tired, but even now he radiated an amazing power. If Gavroche had followed his sister at that moment, he would have recognized the gentleman.

"Is it morning?" he said in a loud voice that didn't sound like an old man at all. "Otherwise, I don't know why you decided to drink tea."

"We could not sleep, Francois," replied Madame Isabelle, while her husband looked sternly at his son and with incomprehension at his guest. "You can join us if you want".

Monsieur Enjolras did not accept his wife's offer. With a decent attitude towards her, in which, however, there was hardly a place for love, he almost never agreed with any of her thoughts.

"I'll leave it to you," he said, then fixed his cold gaze on Eponine. "Since when are crooks allowed in our house?"

A dozen witticisms came to mind, but she thought them inappropriate and said nothing.

"You shouldn't call every person who has anything to do with me a crook, father," Etienne said.

"After all, this girl is our guest," Madame Isabelle added.

Monsieur Francois sighed heavily.

"You should have discussed this with me before inviting guests to the house".

Eponine could no longer bear such rudeness. Part of her wanted to return the old man's favor, but another part of her told him to leave the house and never come back.

"Monsieur Enjolras is right," the girl said, looking away. "It's late, and I should probably go home. Even scoundrels like me," she allowed herself a small jibe, "don't make a habit of sleeping outside".

With that, Eponine got to her feet and headed for the door, briefly thanking Madame Isabelle for the tea. She was hurt, upset, and angry with Enjolras's father, but remained full of respect and gratitude for his mother. However, Eponine found the visit to this place surprising, even if she had no intention of ever returning.

It was colder outside than it had been at midnight. The wind had picked up, and the thin dress now seemed to Eponine quite useless. Thinking that she should have taken her cloak, she started for the gate, but stopped when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. This was the first person she'd seen here, and the last person she'd expected to meet.

"You should not have left us so soon," Enjolras said, and his voice betrayed no emotion at all.

"Your father thinks otherwise," Eponine said bitterly.

In the light of a single lantern, she could barely see the other's face. There was a concern in those expressive blue eyes that might not have been there at all.

"Don't listen to everything he says," Enjolras said. "If I had followed his opinion in everything, I wouldn't be what you know me to be now. I would not have had the goals and aspirations of those that make me move forward".

Eponine nodded.

"You must have been used to fighting since you were a child," she said with a smile.

Enjolras did not answer. After a moment's thought, he took the hastily thrown red coat from his shoulders and carefully handed it to the girl.

"Take. It's too cold at this hour for just a dress to be enough".

Eponine looked at Enjolras in surprise, but accepted it. The wind didn't seem so strong for a moment, and the long drive home was a pleasant walk.

"Thank you," she said, and smiled faintly. "I'll return it to you as soon as I can."

"There is no need, Mademoiselle. You don't have to return it".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> useless fancast: Isabelle Enjolras — Gillian Anderson, Francois Enjolras — Charles Dance.


	14. CHAPTER 14, WHERE THE READER AGAIN FINDS HIMSELF IN THE LAIR OF DARK PERSONALITIES

It happens that the transparent clarity of the morning turns the events of the night into a barely perceptible mirage. At such moments, the dream is barely distinguishable from reality, and only the dreamy, rebellious part of our soul is not able to forget the miracles that occurred after sunset. Night is the time of romantics, but in the morning order and precision rule.

However, Eponine met the dawn in disarray: the bedclothes were taken apart, the nightgown had slipped off her shoulder, and the pillow was found on the floor next to the bed. Everything that had happened during the night now seemed like a wonderful dream. Eponine got to her feet, replaced the pillow, and looked around the room thoughtfully. Everything was quiet. Azelma was still asleep, and her father's snoring could be clearly heard from above.

A sleepy sun shone through the window panes: spring is still spring even on cold, quiet days. Eponine almost calmed down. The vague unease that had been gnawing at her since she'd woken up had receded. No need to worry about bad dreams, she decided. Dreams are only images, mirages that disappear with the dawn. But the mirage Eponine saw at this hour was real: a scarlet caftan hung on a low wooden chair. She gave him a quick glance and shoved him into the trunk with her clothes, not wanting her sister or mother to get suspicious.

The trunk slammed shut with startling volume. Azelma's eyes widened.

"Ponine?"

"Good morning."

The devil, as they say, lies in the details: the sleeve of the caftan, which did not fit completely in the chest, hung almost to the floor.

"I haven't seen your red dresses," Azelma said confidently. "What happened last night? You were gone so long that even I couldn't wait".

Azelma frowned. From an early age, she had an amazing insight — a quality that allows you to see a little more than an ordinary person. She was always aware of changes in her sister's behavior and could guess exactly what mood she was in. This morning, as the reader has already realized, was no exception.

"Business," Eponine shrugged her shoulders.

She didn't think it necessary to tell her sister.

"With Montparnasse? Even our father says you should stay away from him".

Eponine sighed. She and Azelma had very little in common, but they agreed on one thing: stubbornness. Probably inherited from their mother, it turned every argument they had into a small war with no winners or losers. This time, however, Eponine decided to give in. She knew that her sister could keep any secret.

Eponine told her everything. She did not conceal the failure of the Patron Minette, or the tea-party, or even the surly Monsieur Francois, who almost turned her out of the door.

"It's like the beginning of a mother's romance" Azelma said, looking at her sister with a surprised smile.

Eponine just frowned and shrugged, showing her distaste for the ladies: reading material that her mother had been fond of in her youth.

"I don't want to live in a novel".

There was a brief silence, which at other times might have been a harbinger of a coming quarrel. But luck and self-control were on the sister's side, and soon they were discussing, as if nothing had happened, the upcoming meeting at the cafe Musain, which was to take place around eight o'clock that evening.

"The meeting should be so interesting! Monsieur Combeferre has promised to bring some new book by Balzac, and it ..." said Azelma.

She couldn't finish. There were loud, heavy footsteps outside the door. It was Janet Thenardier — madame had wanted to check on her daughters before starting work. She had been in the habit of such sudden meetings before: Eponine and Azelma were her delight and received all the maternal love that this cruel woman was capable of.

"What is a meeting?" she asked, opening the door. "What kind of gentleman?"

Madame Thenardier was not in the habit of knocking on doors before opening them.

Azelma sat up in surprise. She didn't know what to say to her mother: she and Eponine had agreed to keep quiet about "Musain" and Les Amis De'l ABC, but the younger Thenardier always thought that one day one of their parents would somehow guess about their new hobby.

Janet Thenardier was silent. She looked at each of her daughters, waiting for the answer to her question. For some reason, she did not want to appear harsh: a little of the gentleness and kindness that mothers usually possess still lingered in Madame Thenardier's heart.

The long silence was broken only by the ticking of the wall clock and the snoring of Monsieur Thenardier, who had not yet deigned to get out of bed.

Azelma finally spoke.

"Maman, how do you feel about politics?" she asked cautiously.

Janet shrugged her shoulders. As long as the coins clattered in her purse, she didn't care whose face they were.

Azelma calmed down a little and continued her story with her sister's tacit consent. She skipped details that might have embarrassed her mother, but she tried to be honest so that she wouldn't get caught up in her own lies later. Janet listened as carefully as she could, but a look of bewilderment kept appearing in her eyes.

"I don't see why you fools can't stay at home," said Madame Thenardier, when the younger daughter had finished.

There was a hint of good-natured mockery in her voice, but a person who didn't know Janet might have considered her cruel.

"I don't want to work all day in an Inn," Eponine said. "We can do a lot of important things, so why not do it? In the end, we choose who we want to be".

This last remark from her daughter made Madame Thenardier frown.

"So that's what these boys teach you," she murmured. "Come and discuss your business with your father".

Basil Thenardier was the type of man who did not need to lie in bed in the morning: only when he opened his eyes, he was ready for any work. However, most of his work consisted of putting other people's money in the cash register, diluting the previously decent wine with water, grumbling at his wife and ingratiating smiles to customers. Thenardier was by nature a cunning, mean, and greedy man, but strangers were not always attentive enough to understand this.

When he went out to see his wife and daughters, Basil had already put on the guise of a decent man, which, however, did not change anything: both Janet, Eponine and Azelma knew what Basil really was.

"It's only ten o'clock in the morning, and a stupid old bourgeois has already lost to me at cards," said Thenardier with malicious gaiety, squinting his already sly eyes. "I took his money and his shoes. It is a pity that the latter were small, but that's all right — I'll rent it to the tanner of the Rue Plumet and get an extra ten francs!"

Eponine chuckled. She had already learned her father's way of doing business, even if she didn't always agree with it.

"You're going to spend it all on yourself again, oaf," Janet muttered. "And what will happen to our money if, let's say, the government changes? If some fool decides that he should rule France…"

Thenardier looked surprised.

"Why do you ask that? I haven't heard of a mutiny anywhere".

Eponine now took the floor. She spoke with her father's usual irony and mixed her speech with jokes, making it clear that there was nothing frightening in all this. Basil listened, occasionally rubbing the bridge of his nose and squinting his left eye. He was silent, but his expression gradually became puzzled.

"Do you know what will happen to our Inn if the authorities suddenly change?" Thenardier asked when the room was silent. "I'm not sure we won't be covered up and the building torn down. It would be better to be happy about how well we are living now, and not put papa's savings at risk!"

Azelma narrowed her eyes, smiled, and looked at her father with surprising confidence.

"What if we go to that cafe for a reason? What if your money could get even bigger soon? We know a lot of young people now, and some of them are rich. Richer than us, papa!"

Azelma's tone barely betrayed the lie. For a moment, even her sister believed her, but a glance in her direction shattered any misgivings. Her father, on the other hand, heard what his ears needed most.

"Now I see my own daughters!" he exclaimed. "And then decided to… Some kind of revolution… We'll have a revolution here if we build a new cellar!"

Eponine, still upset by her sister's words (even knowing they were false), decided to intervene again.

"Money is great, but we can't go to the Musain and not listen to anyone. Sometimes these young people say the right things".

Basil just let out a mocking sigh through his nose and waved it away. Janet took her daughter's words differently.

"And if they tell you to go to the barricades, like in the thirties? Are you going to get shot at?" she asked, and there was a hint of concern in her gruff voice.

Azelma and Eponine exchanged glances.

"Maybe," the older one said.

"No way," the younger one said.

Basil glanced at Eponine with displeasure, and at Azelma with a grin. There were few things in the world that could seriously impress this man.

"Where is your brother?" he asked at last, and there was a peculiar note of mock contempt in his voice. "This one would have gone anywhere and not even hurt himself."

"Where it's better than here," Eponine said.

Gavroche was actually in the Rue Saint-Denis at this hour. He strolled through the small square near the famous arch and pondered. His thoughts were practical: he was thinking about where to get money for bread while he couldn't go to the cash register, and where to spend the night while the hated pharaohs were constantly scurrying around his elephant. Despite the cold weather, Gavroche was cheerful and mocking. He jumped up and down, sang vaudeville verses, stuck out his tongues to passers-by, and even made love to young grisettes, who, however, immediately drove him away. Gavroche was not cold in his old waistcoat and here and there a torn blouse; it seemed as if eternal summer reigned in his young soul.

The street was filled with people, but even such a master of making acquaintances as Gavroche did not meet a single familiar face here. However, a different thought occurred to him. He has conceived a case in which conversation is not required at all, and often does harm. He planned to steal a purse from one of the rich men.

In order to carry out his plan, Gavroche made his way into the thick of the crowd and even heard the soft playing of street musicians. To listen to them, and perhaps leave a few sous, all sorts of people gathered — the poor, the rich, and what is now called the "middle class". Gavroche had no difficulty in selecting a suitable bourgeois. He was a man in his fifties, wearing a blue redingot and a hat cocked jauntily to one side. His sly look reminded Gavroche of his father's, but it was more vanity than meanness. On the arm of the bourgeois was a young, fair-haired mademoiselle in a yellow dress (she must be her daughter), but Gavroche paid no attention to her. As he approached the man, he carefully fished out a thick wallet from the pocket of his redingot. The job was done. All I had to do was get out of here.

Suddenly Gavroche heard a clear voice right in his ear.

"Aha, I've got you, you rascal!"

A tall, thin man in a police uniform was now looking directly at Gavroche. His gleeful look could have been mistaken for that of a man who had caught at least a serial killer. In this subtle, sharp, and overly executive man, Gavroche saw failure, and the reader probably recognized Marseilles Pivert, who had become a police commissioner during Javert's absence.

"Damn the pharaohs!" muttered Gavroche, as Pivert seized him by the ear and took the purse from him. "How else can gamins find food?"

The policeman didn't answer. After returning the money to the venerable gentleman, he was lost in the crowd again. Gavroche was at that moment too surprised, angry, and upset to notice the two unkind looks that belonged to the father and daughter.

It happens that the element, beyond the control of human forces, destroys the already shaky expectations. So it happened with Gavroche: going to visit one of his friends, he got caught in the rain. The shower was too strong to survive it without any consequences, and because Gavroche made a decision: we need to find shelter. His quick feet led him to the Rue Rambuteau. Soon the Rue Rambuteau was replaced by the Rue Mondetour, and the Rue Mondetour by the Rue Chanvrery. Gavroche found himself at the Corinth.

He looked in the window. His father was standing at the cash register again, as he always did, my mother was sitting in the corner of the hall, and my sisters were talking to another customer who looked like a young worker.

Gavroche knocked.

It was about a minute before Madame Thenardier's red head appeared in the doorway, and then her displeased face.

"What do you want?"

Gavroche smiled and shrugged. He started to walk away, but before he could move, a strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. It was Eponine.

"Sometimes you're better off at home" she said, ignoring the puzzled look in her mother's eyes. "All wet, look at you! Maybe it's good for you to hang out somewhere, but you also need to know the honor!"

Gavroche chuckled.

"I was fine on the street," he said in a cheerful voice.

If someone with a heart had listened to this conversation, they would have been struck to the core: it is not often that you meet a child who is ready to exchange his father's house for the street.

"You're lying," Eponine said, and patted her brother's hair. "We all need a decent bed sometimes. Papa," she now turned to Thenardier. "Let Gavroche stay with us. He is, after all, your son, too!"

"Not forever," Gavroche added, desperate to fight his sister's enthusiasm.

Basil Thenardier nodded. His eyes were thoughtful, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

"I thought you had enough of the money you were used to stealing from the cash register," he said. "You were cheaper that way, but... I hope you'll be of some use."

Madame Thenardier sighed wearily. She'd forgotten what it was like to have a son, and she wasn't going to remember. However, providence decided otherwise. God created her as a mother, which means that she must take care of each of the creatures that she produced.

"Stay," Janet said curtly, and went back to her seat.

Gavroche nodded. In this place, which he would never call home, the boy had enough smiling sisters, steep stairs, and strange clients to discuss something fun with for a decent life. In the few hours that Gavroche managed to spend at the Corinth, He managed to help his sisters with their orders, count his father's savings, clean up instead of Cosette, and roll down the banister four times from the second floor to the first.

"We have to go," Eponine said as the rain stopped and the clock struck seven. "Meeting".

Gavroche started, and Azelma, absorbed in reading a book, was distracted from it. Their eyes now lit up with that lively interest that only people who are engaged in their favorite business can have. Three young souls were full of life, and one, the most tender of them, was now beginning to have something new called love.

"To be home by nightfall!" Janet Thenardier murmured when they left.

"And you, too, you little brat," added Basil. "I have something to teach you."


	15. CHAPTER 15, WHERE JUSTICE LOOKS THROUGH THE EYES OF THE PEOPLE

It happens that a case that has inadvertently become one of the main meanings of life completely changes our opinions and views. Police officers become cold and harsh, and dealers-on the contrary, are cunning and insidious. With Javert it was different — his own views decided his fate. A cold, clear mind and a thirst for justice, surprising for an ordinary person, once brought him to the police station. Javert stayed there for almost thirty years.

Almost two months have passed since the former inspector's life changed its usual course, and the police uniform disappeared on the old mezzanine. It is difficult for a person to get rid of old habits. Thus, Javert continued to Wake up at the hour when it was necessary for him to enter the service. He became scowling, sullen, and even more serious than usual. Life now seemed empty to Javert: every day became a mirror image of the previous one. It was as if he fell asleep sick, and woke up burning with an unknown disease — it was boredom.

Over time, Javert learned to read the newspaper, then to go outside, thus resuming his evening walks. By the end of april, when the weather began to favor this, he began to visit his former colleagues occasionally. Javert had no friends, and no one would have dared to consider him a friend, but he was still highly respected by the police. Every young man who took up the guard of justice wanted to be like him.

On the morning when Javert returned to the Place du Chatelet, it was windy but sunny. The gray redingot, buttoned up by habit, looked like a police uniform. Habits, as we know, remain with us for life, even if we do not want to notice them.

"Hello, monsieur," he said, meeting Monsieur Simon Junior, one of his former colleagues, not far from the bridge.

"Good morning," said Simon, a short, thick — set, middle-aged man with large features. "You know, without You, the police Department is completely out of discipline. Pivert thinks he's a boss and does whatever he wants".

Javert sighed heavily and said nothing. Simon was not the first to suggest that he return to the service.

"In that case," Javert said in a firm voice, "the management should have given his position to you".

Simon smiled ruefully.

"It would have been if they hadn't been bribed," he said. "This fool's father is a very important man".

Javert did not answer. He and Simon stood in silence for a long moment, but the other man decided to break the silence.

"They say there's going to be a good fight. Here and there people whisper about all sorts of things. We must be careful, Monsieur".

"What kind of fight?" Javert asked, with a hint of surprise in his voice.

He hadn't been out much lately, so he couldn't know the mood of Parisians.

"Mutiny," Simon said quietly.

Javert left him in confusion. He was not used to paying attention to uprisings and treated them as days when he had to work harder than usual. The mood of Paris, lively and diverse, never touched the stony soul of Javert. He was indifferent equally to the happy laughter and the cry of despair: nor one nor the other would force it to act.

However, sometimes people tend to change. Javert's granite coldness, caused, among other things, by the profession, gave a significant crack after the death of Jean Valjean. This man, deeply despised by the former inspector, had, without knowing it, managed to plant a seed of doubt in his soul. The people no longer seemed strange and distant to Javert, for He, too, had come close to them after leaving his work.

Javert, who had left Simon in a state of perplexity and reverie, did not lose these feelings now. The mysterious word "mutiny" engrossed his mind: when Javert was still a police inspector, it had served as an unspoken signal for action. The first and only task for him was at all costs to suppress, destroy and eradicate any rudiments of dissent. He had to maintain order. But what is order — lawlessness or the pursuit of justice? Javert decided to find out.

First of all, he went to the Rue Saint-Denis. The people at this hour were as usual hurrying about their business, and it was easy to hear what they were saying. Javert had no intention of eavesdropping. He knew that people would tell him everything they needed to know without even knowing. This is one of the phenomena of the human soul: they can't keep their burdens and sorrows in them for long — sooner or later it all pours out in a torrent, and Woe to the one who gets caught in it.

Javert was right. A crowd had gathered in the Rue Saint-Denis, which was a little more lively than usual. Among the ragged, dirty, sad, and embittered poor, he found only a few bourgeois. Two of them were openly chuckling, but the other three seemed interested in what was happening. Javert decided to become part of the crowd for a while. He expected to find the truth here.

On a small pedestal built of stones and old furniture, four people were standing: Javert could see two young people, a girl and a boy.

"Citizens," said the first youth, a warlike, fair-haired man, "the hour will soon come when we will throw off our fetters. Freedom lies at the distance of hundreds of gun volleys, and our goal is to get to her.

"We are not loved," the boy said, "we are despised, kicked, thrown out, and used. We have nothing to eat, we have nothing to live on, but we are not going to give up!"

The crowd, noisy and alive, reacted violently to the words of these young people. The people shouted, waved their arms, and stamped their feet, seeming to express their agreement. The girl, who had been silent before, began handing out leaflets — small pieces of paper covered with democratic slogans and calls for quick action. One of them went to Javert. It is worth noting that if the boy and young people he saw for the first time, the girl, tall, slender and not at all like a beggar, seemed familiar to him.

He listened a little longer. The young men talked about freedom, equality, friendship, fraternity, an enlightened society, and the bright future that every frenchman must have. Javert considered. Now society, so complex and multi-faceted, seemed to him even more complex and at the same time simpler. They were dissatisfied, and therefore wanted a change — Javert remembered this from the thirtieth year, but then he did not think about the reasons for this unrest. Now everything is different. The mind of Javert, so clear in his blindness, has finally seen the light.

He left the crowd, not to return home, but to face the people. Or rather, he wanted to look around him through the eyes of the people — the community to which Javert might have counted himself. Without thinking, he headed for the Rue Berget. The warmth and freshness of spring did the impossible, giving this sad place a touch of gaiety. The sun's rays reflected from the broken windows of the poor houses, lit up the narrow road and gave the last warmth to the beggars who could be met here. Javert, deeply impressed, if he could be startled, walked more slowly than usual. For the first time in his life, he walked with his head down, and also for the first time in his life, with his hands behind his back. This pose of indecision was not his usual one before.

When Javert saw a young man standing by the road, thin, pale, sickly, and hungry, he bent over him and handed him twenty sous. The beggar only nodded weakly — such people tend to lose the ability to distinguish between good and evil.

Javert, without changing his position, went on. Now that he had penetrated the depths of human suffering, he saw the rebellion differently. They fight, Javert thought, not because they want to fight, but because it's the only thing left for them to do other than die ingloriously. In his mind, Javert called the rebels "noble."

From the Rue Berget, he went to the Rue Rambuteau — a favorite meeting place for french policemen. The place greeted Javert with its usual animation, which the former inspector now viewed from a very different angle. This life, if you could call it that, was one of hardship and oppression. Javert looked around. In many dresses, coats, redingotes, and the cloaks he found a single police uniform. It was worn by a very young man, who, to Javert's eyes, was not at all accustomed to police service. He was tall, thin, and mocking, but in his eyes you could already read the superiority that is inherent in the children of rich parents. javert decided to follow this young man, and what he saw next could only cause disappointment in the former inspector. the young policeman looked around and, catching sight of a woman begging at a grocery store, pushed her straight to the ground. Javert remembered this scene for a long time, and the unhappy woman's eyes full of grief. The young cop probably hadn't noticed that she was carrying a baby. As the young man went on, Javert approached the woman, helped her to her feet, and gave her the five francs he found in his pocket. He promised her that her abuser would be punished.

Towards evening, at the hour when the sun was beginning to set, Javert went home. He was frowning and thoughtful. There was a revolution in his soul, but it was slow, logical, and gradual — like a river changing its course over the centuries. The revolt no longer seemed to Javert a game, a farce, or a folly. Now he saw in the mutiny the bravery and the desire for true freedom that is common to all men. The people, thought Javert, have something to fight for and for, and to interfere with them is to recognize no human rights.

The ex-inspector could not sleep at night, created for peace: he kept seeing the look of the woman from the Rue Rambuteau, begging for help. "This is the real France," thought Javert, when he awoke.


	16. CHAPTER 16, WHERE BOOT MARKS APPEAR ON THE SILK TABLECLOTH (PART ONE)

Spring was particularly warm this year, and one of the days, the eighteenth of april, looked like a summer day at all. Spring is the time of dawn, and summer, as the poets say, is like a clear and hot noon. But it wasn't just poets who gathered at the Musain that day — there were lawyers, doctors, ordinary workers, and people who didn't really belong to any of the professions. enjolras, as was usually the case, took the floor first, and if he did not speak, he looked sternly in the direction of his friends. Combeferre was reading the Royal Charter and explaining in low tones to Courfeyrac and Azelma, Feuilly and Bahorel were joking, and Jehan Prouvaire was reading his poems in a low voice. Grantaire was drinking. Eponine, seated not far from him, sat in silence, but at any moment was ready to enter into some heated argument. Only Joly, who had caught a cold somewhere, and Bossuet, who had taken charge of him, were absent.

The day was slowly drawing to a close as the sun faded, casting its last red rays through the windows. Looking at this, Enjolras had become particularly gloomy. there were shadows in his bold blue eyes, and his gaze was almost as absent as it was when a person was upset or tense.

"Aren't you going to tell us what's eating you so much?" Courfeyrac finally asked, voicing a question that no one had dared to ask before him.

With his laughing eyes and the dimple in his left cheek, this young man looked like someone who wanted to trust from the first meeting.

"It's all right," Enjolras said stiffly, not looking at his friends. "Well, about the bullets. It's best to start casting…"

"Wait!" Courfeyrac held out his hands. "Bullets aren't as important as what you're angry about. I'm used to your hard face, my friend, but now you're ... upset?"

Combeferre finished sorting through the papers and nodded.

"There really is something wrong with you, Monsieur Enjolras," Eponine added.

"You must share it with us," Jehan Prouvaire said, sitting down in an empty chair.

Enjolras gave each of them a cursory glance, and then, with a heavy sigh, began to speak. Previously, he had told his friends little about himself and his life outside the Revolution; considering this unimportant, Enjolras left all problems behind the doors of the Musain and assumed that they would remain there forever.

"It's my father's birthday," he said at last. "I can't miss the reception he gave in his honor".

There was no trace of joy in Enjolras's voice. On the contrary, it was cold and gloomy, like thunderclouds ready to burst into a storm at any moment.

After these words, the eyes of the friends changed, and especially — the look of Eponine, fortunately, no one noticed.

"You don't want to be there?" have heard of Courfeyrac. "Dancing, music, wine…"

Grantaire perked up at the last word.

"We could go with you!" He said cheerfully, a wry grin appearing on his slightly reddened face.

Enjolras shook his head sharply.

"My father allowed me to invite only two decent people," he emphasized the word. "Not you, Grantaire".

The skeptic just rolled his eyes wearily and emptied another bottle of wine, muttering to himself something like "and this is me you think indecent?"

Enjolras's suggestion, never directly expressed, hung in the air. Finally Courfeyrac spoke.

"I could keep you company," he said with a smile, taking off his hat. "So is a my friend who should have wiped his glasses."

Combeferre, so abruptly distracted from his conversation with the younger Thenardier, only looked at his friend with a little surprise.

"i agree," he said, shrugging. "But i don't intend to get drunk, as is sometimes the custom at such festivals".

Enjolras nodded his approval and settled back in his chair.

"One more question, my friend," Courfeyrac said. "Can the ladies join us?"

With that, he winked at Eponine and Azelma, who were sitting at opposite ends of the room.

"That's out of the question," Enjolras snapped.

The rest of the evening passed in quiet conversations drinking wine and a small dispute arose between Feuilly, Bahorel and Jehan Prouvaire. The question of the role of poetry in the life of the people was put up for discussion — not so important as to interest Enjolras, but unusual enough to arouse the interest of others. About two hours passed in this kind of conversation — the time that evening dragged on like melted caramel, from which no one was going to make sweets. However, as soon as the wall clock struck six times, Enjolras immediately rose to his feet.

"It's time," he said shortly.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac followed him.

Soon others began to disperse: having lost a leader, the formation tends to turn into a crowd. Bahorel left "Musain" first, citing urgent business in Estrapade. He was followed by Jehan Prouvaire and Feuilly. Soon there were only three people left in the back room of the cafe, lit only by a ray of the setting sun and a couple of old lamps.

"Is that me, am I indecent?" Grantaire exclaimed. "I've read Prudhomme, I know the Constitution of the second year and the Social Contract by heart! I'm even a little hebertist. And he dares to call me indecent?!"

Azelma sighed heavily, and Eponine just nodded, watching the next batch of wine evaporate from the half-empty bottle.

She pursed her lips. "As if the fact that I'm a lady, deprives me of the opportunity to go somewhere! What nonsense!"

Grantaire didn't answer. He took a few more impressive sips, rubbed the bridge of his nose, ruffled his dark curls, tapped his fingers on the table, and then spoke.

"Ladies, I have a wonderful idea".

The crooked smile reappeared on his face. Grantaire was almost elated: his playful tone and narrowed eyes suggested that the idea was as illegal as it was hilarious.

"Tell me," Eponine demanded, leaning a little closer.

Grantaire beamed.

"If Monsieur Enjolras does not wish to invite us to his reception, we will come there uninvited," he lowered his voice a little, as if someone might have overheard them at that moment. "Incognito, of course".

Azelma's face expressed an extreme degree of indignation and bewilderment.

"We can't!.." she blurted out.

"We agree," her sister interrupted.

If the room had been a little brighter, both Grantaire and Azelma would have noticed the gleam in her eyes. Eponine had been adventurous since childhood, and the idea of going to the ball, and especially to Enjolras's ball, seemed more than tempting to her.

"Why can't we, my dear?" With an innocent smile Granter asked, turning to Azelma. "Very much we can, and, moreover, we want to".

Azelma shook her head uncertainly, hiding her hands in the folds of her cream dress.

"And if they recognize us?"

"Then we'll turn it to our advantage," Grantaire shrugged, "and make sure that a bunch of snobs will remember this ball for a long time."

Eponine frowned, but she didn't say anything to Grantaire.

"This will be fun," she said to her sister, giving her sister's shoulder a little squeeze. "Imagine how surprised Monsieur Combeferre will be when he sees how well you dance".

Azelma exhaled loudly and slapped her sister's hand, but after a few seconds, she nodded uncertainly. Eponine and Grantaire exchanged exultant glances that made the plan of action clearer and clearer.

"Before we go to this celebration of life, we need to stop at the Corinth," Eponine said, and smiled slyly as she left the cafe.

Grantaire was surprised.

"Why?"

She nodded toward Grantaire's old vest and her own dress, which clearly needed washing.

"We're not going to go there like this, are we?"

It didn't take long to get to the Corinth. Paris at this hour was filled with that freshness and charm which is peculiar only to the middle of spring. Souls ready for adventure, absorbed the remnants of the setting sun, the fresh wind and the evening coolness-fortunately, all this around was in abundance.

The inn was empty. Two days ago the Thenardiers had left town to settle some business with Madame Janet's old and sullen cousin. It was said that she was going to leave them a good inheritance, and if so, then Tenardier's haste could be attributed to her own greed. The Corinth was left in the care of the sisters, and today, for the first time, they decided to take advantage of this circumstance. As he climbed the wide but creaking staircase, Grantaire stared in surprise at the tables, chairs, and bar that remained on the ground floor, and then, as he entered the wide corridor, at him, too.

"A wonderful tavern," he said, as Eponine watched him enter the Thenardiers' bedroom. "I'm surprised I haven't heard of him before. I suppose your father has good wine here, straight from Champagne?"

Eponine shrugged and continued to rummage through her father's trunks, trying to find something that would fit Grantaire's short, stocky figure.

"We have wine from Champagne, Bordeaux, and many other places," Azelma said, arriving a little late at the door. "But i'd probably recommend Burgundy for you."

Grantaire smiled broadly and was about to say something, but Eponine interrupted him impudently, solemnly handing him a clean white shirt, a new dark green waistcoat, and breeches.

"Get dressed. We'll be in the next room and come out as soon as we're ready".

Grantaire frowned and looked at the things the girl held out in disbelief.

"You think I don't have my own clothes?" he raised an eyebrow slightly, but noted that the quality of the vest was excellent, and the shirt still crunched clean.

"Not for the reception. Especially", Eponine winked slyly, "in your old clothes, you will be recognized immediately, and it will not be so interesting".

With that, the two sisters left the room and went into the next room to clean themselves up.

Eponine, who was not used to changing clothes often and taking care of their quality, found only one suitable dress. It was dark blue, with open shoulders and wide sleeves, and it looked great on her slender figure. Azelma chose a cream one, slightly lighter and fuller than her sister's. To make matters worse, the two girls found a pair of half-masks in one of the drawers, which they had once purchased on the occasion of a masquerade ball from one of their father's friends.

"You look like you're going to seduce some rich man," Azelma drawled, watching her sister try to pull her unruly hair back into a sort of coiffure.

Eponine had never paid much attention to her appearance, but this time, for some reason, she decided to change her habits. She was going to play the role of a noble maiden, so it was worth matching the image.

"Averting suspicion", Eponine muttered, almost offended by her sister's remark. "Everyone is used to seeing me a little disheveled, and as it is", she nodded at her reflection in the mirror, "no one will think it's me."

Azelma only grunted briefly and straightened her dress, and then, accompanied by her sister, went to help Grantaire.

"Mademoiselle, I am ridiculous!" he exclaimed, looking in the mirror.

Monsieur Thenardier's clothes fit perfectly. The breeches were a little longer than they should have been, but Azelma's skillful hands immediately hid this small flaw from prying eyes.

"You're wonderful, how good you are!" she said, and adjusted the collar of her starched shirt.

Grantaire didn't get the mask, and if he had, he would have thrown it away and been extremely angry.

"So are you, ladies," Grantaire said with a smile. "We'll be legends of this boring party, I'm sure".

At the moment when Grantaire uttered these words, he had no idea how true they would be. Rash decisions, made either in jest or mockery, sometimes change entire lives. This statement, sharp but accurate, in some measure determined the character of the three adventurers who found themselves in the Rue Chanvrerie at eight o'clock in the evening.

Dressed to the nines, perfumed and cheerful, they did not allow the thought of going to the Rue de Vaugirard on foot. "It is better to spend a few sous on a tolerable fiacre," said Eponine, and Grantaire and Azelma supported the idea.

"I wonder how we'll get there," Remy said thoughtfully, swaying from the rough road.

Outside the window, the streets of Paris flashed by, still dimly lit at this hour.

"Don't worry," Eponine said. "The doorkeeper is not there, and the maid has come down with a cold. Even if they don't open the gate, there's a fence. He's not tall, even Azelma can get ove"r.

Grantaire frowned.

"How do you know?"

The girl didn't answer.

"However, the old man is expecting guests, which means that he will not think of closing the doors".

By the time the three of them reached the Rue de Vaugirard, twilight was beginning to take over the bright parisian sky. This is the best time to hide if you are afraid of the shadow of the night. However, Eponine, Azelma and Grantaire had no intention of hiding. They were going to merge with the crowd, thus violating the strict ban of Enjolras.

The door of the mansion was open, as Eponine had expected. From the street, too, there were faint echoes of dance music and soft voices, among which there were equally women's and men's voices.

"Maybe not worth it?" Azelma asked quietly, looking at the huge mansion with excitement.

"it's worth it, my dear, it's worth it," Grantaire said with a smile.

It was a matter of principle for him to get here, and Grantaire would have lost all respect for himself if he had given up the adventure. Eponine was smiling cheerfully, but there was a hint of embarrassment on her laughing face: she remembered the night she had first come here, and she remembered how Monsieur Francois had met her. "Nothing," Eponine decided before taking a step inside the house, " the main thing is not to get caught in the old man's eyes."

The famous house in the Rue De Vaugirard was full of guests at this hour. The celebration — a ball of cunning and hypocrisy — created a noise otherwise called music, and a hubbub otherwise called conversation. Eponine, who had to lead the way, took a new look at the familiar long corridors, heavy doors, and massive paintings on the walls. here and there she met well-dressed bourgeois strangers, and Eponine had to greet them with all courtesy.

The birthday of the host, Monsieur Francois, was held in the main hall — a huge round room, bright because of the many lamps hung on the walls. Eponine could see neither the beginning nor the end of this vast expanse; it was as if she, Azelma, and Grantaire were trapped in a trap from which there was no escape. The brightness, volume, and pomp of the evening struck Eponine's young heart. She could not say that she felt comfortable here, but a new, unfamiliar feeling now filled her soul. guests were bustling around. No one would have been able to name the exact number of them, but there were enough people to fill the entire hall.

Grantaire, as sincere as any drunkard, was constantly admiring the table setting:

"Look at this wine! Just look at the way the ham is sliced!"

He was cheerful and not at all embarrassed, but the moment his eyes flicked to the left for a moment, his face suddenly took on a completely different expression. Eponine followed his gaze and immediately turned away. Enjolras sat at one of the wide tables, flanked on either side by his mother and father. Monsieur Francois's eyes were once more frowning and stern, but Madame Isabelle was smiling.

"And why was he allowed to invite friends," Eponine grumbled, adjusting the glove that had slipped down her forearm.

At that moment, a hand touched her shoulder. Eponine started, turned, and met Courfeyrac's eyes. There was a cheerful smile on his lips, as always, and his curly hair was disheveled from dancing.

"Who do I see?" Antoine exclaimed, and laughed, looking at Eponine, Azelma and Grantaire in turn. "Ah, the beauties! Ah yes, the handsome, R! And are you not in the least afraid of the righteous wrath of our Enjolras?"

"He won't know," Eponine said, and smiled one of those smiles that seemed both sly and embarrassed.

Courfeyrac chuckled, but said nothing. Instead, he took Azelma's arm and whispered in her ear, narrowing his eyes:

"Come, I will take you to my friend, with whom you were having such a pleasant conversation the other day. Maybe this time he'll think of something funnier to tell than old Honore. Or even invite you to dance!"

"Oh, I'd love to waltz with your friend," Azelma smiled, a faint blush touching her cheeks.

Courfeyrac sighed.

"Oh, that waltz! I recently invited a lady here… See, the one with the red hair? So she danced with me, and then ran off to her friend, so that she wouldn't see me again. Such ladies are timid here!"

"Not all of them," Eponine said, looking at her sister and Courfeyrac as they walked slowly away to the other end of the hall.

Grantaire was now sitting at the same table with a handsome young man eponine had never seen before. He had gray-blue eyes and hair the color of ripe wheat, and he had the same demeanor as most of the guests.

"You're here for the old man's anniversary, too?" Grantaire asked his new friend, with the air, if not of a relative, of a good acquaintance of Monsieur Francois.

"Including," said the young man who gave his name as Christophe. "My father wants to marry my sister to his son, but between you and me, I don't think he can".

At that moment, a tall man in his mid-fifties with a slightly Christophe-like face approached the table.

"Why won't it work?" he asked with a sly smile that was more important than dignified.

If Gavroche had been at the reception, he would have said that it would not be shameful to take out this gentleman's purse.

"You know, father," Christophe said, and smiled faintly.

His father didn't answer him. Instead, he stared at Grantaire, and then at Eponine, who had been riveted to the floor by the news of Enjolras's sudden marriage.

"I don't remember seeing you before. Have you been here long?"

Grantaire smiled pleasantly.

"Oh, monsieur," he drawled in a slightly drunken voice. "We are great-nephews of Monsieur Francois. We came from Poitiers and, you're right, we were a little late".

Eponine tried not to laugh. Monsieur Chereau (for that was his name) looked at Grantaire incredulously, and then went in the direction of Monsieur Francois. The room seemed full to overflowing: if you saw one face, you could hardly expect to see it again. All the ladies looked alike, and the skirts of their dresses rustled fervently as the gentlemen dared to ask them to dance.

Suddenly the music stopped, and a moment later it was replaced by a different, slower and calmer one. A crowd began to gather in the center of the hall, and Eponine, following her curiosity, went in the same direction. Dozens of dresses and as many tailcoats swirled around her, probably for another dance. eponine was not used to such pandemonium: a young woman had pushed her against the wall so that she could get as close to the center as possible.

The music seemed to grow a little louder now: the familiar tunes that Eponine had heard as a child merged into one, smooth and enchanting. Couples swirled around. Eponine could have sworn she saw her sister among them, waltzing expertly with Combeferre. A smile was just about to bloom on her face when she heard the familiar measured footsteps close by.

Eponine looked up, and an expression of embarrassment mixed with surprise froze in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this work, then I will be very happy to receive any feedback. ;)


	17. CHAPTER 17, WHERE BOOT MARKS APPEAR ON THE SILK TABLECLOTH (PART TWO)

"Mademoiselle, don't you dance?"

Eponine looked up. Enjolras, who had changed from his usual caftan to an elegant black suit that evening, was looking directly at her. There was no recognition in his eyes, which were indifferent and a little tired: Eponine seemed to him only one of the hundreds of ladies here who were surprisingly similar to each other. If he could see her eyes under the mask, he might change his mind.

Eponine shook her head and smiled her bright and lively smile, not at all like that of a noble lady. Enjolras paused for a moment. There was something startlingly familiar about the movement, but then it receded. He automatically gave her his hand.

Eponine accepted it with the same smile. Rumbled around the music, they circled the pair and speeches were made, but none of this now seemed to be worthy of attention. The noise of the festival faded before the seemingly insignificant event. A dance is just a dance, Eponine thought, but she couldn't help but chuckle as she realized that out of a dozen available ladies, she was the one to choose.

Enjolras waltzed perfectly. There was a certain caution and coldness in his manner, but his movements were precise and smooth. Eponine, who barely knows what a waltz is, tried her best, but still several times almost crushed her partner's legs.

"I'm sorry, I'm a terrible dancer," she muttered after another incident and sighed heavily.

Enjolras did not answer, and Eponine breathed a sigh of relief: she hoped that her words, so unheard by anyone, were drowned out by the noise of the ball.

The dance continued. Enjolras led his lady expertly, never got in the way, and was silent if such a misfortune happened to Eponine. They seemed to float silently over the hall, communicating only with glances and sighs, which, however, were not devoid of meaning. Enjolras looked at Eponine with thoughtful curiosity, and Eponine looked at Enjolras with a mocking smile that concealed perhaps something more important and significant. The waltz seemed to last forever. Eponine caught a glimpse of her sister dancing with Combeferre and Grantaire choosing a bottle as his companion. At the moment when the couple was near Enjolras's parents, Eponine happened to glance at Madame Isabelle. The other woman, it turned out, was also looking at her, and the surprise in her blue eyes said, "I know who you are."

Soon, the minute that seemed like an eternity turned back into a flash. The waltz was over. Enjolras stopped first, and, with a slight inclination of his head, moved away from his companion. He seemed a little thoughtful, a little confused, and a little tired, but there was a strange gleam in Eponine's familiar stern gaze. However, she easily wrote it off as a wild fantasy and forgot about it.

"Thank you for the waltz, Mademoiselle," Enjolras said when the music had finally died down.

Eponine smiled and cocked her head, trying to curtsy. It turned out badly.

"You are the one to thank, Monsieur. For something that survived it".

She spoke softly, fearing that her clear and loud voice would sound familiar to Enjolras. Eponine didn't think he should know she was here, but somehow she wanted him to know who he was dancing with.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asked suddenly. "You remind me a lot… Someone".

There was curiosity in his eyes again.

"I am your cousin from Poitiers," Eponine lied. "I don't think we've met before".

For some reason, this lie seemed to Eponine sadder and sharper than all the previous ones. She started to walk away. The music began to play around her again, but Eponine could barely hear it: there was a strange feeling in her chest now, something like sadness, or disappointment, or something else beyond the control of human language.

When Eponine stopped to rest, Madame Isabelle came up to her. Her blond hair, not yet graying, was pulled back in an elegant high updo, and a long lavender dress accentuated her statuesque figure. The woman looked at Eponine in silence, but there was no reproach or cruelty in the look. She was driven by simple interest.

"Madame Enjolras?" Eponine murmured softly and forced a smile.

Isabelle nodded.

"Hello".

Eponine greeted him without curtsying.

"I hope you're not particularly annoyed by uninvited guests," she said.

Isabelle smiled and looked carefully around the room, probably trying to find someone.

"It's easy to get lost in so many people," she said. "I can't be sure that I invited that young man in the dark blue suit, or that Mademoiselle in the burgundy dress, who, by the way, has already had a quarrel with one of Etienne's friends".

Eponine mentally agreed with Madame Enjolras. There was something about this woman that made you listen and hear; you wanted to respect her without having to obey her.

When the music stopped again, Eponine left Madame Isabelle to go to her sister. She had difficulty finding her, Combeferre and Courfeyrac at one of the small tables that were placed, as usual, in the corner of the hall. Azelma, happy and flushed, glowed like the sun on the clearest afternoon. She was saying something to Combeferre in a low voice, and Courfeyrac, as always, was laughing at a joke he knew only.

"Oh, Eponine!" he exclaimed.

"Hush," the girl warned.

"Oh, Ponine, as it was perfect!" Azelma looked at her sister with shining eyes. "I knew it would come out like this, and Monsieur Enjolras would dance with you".

Eponine sank down on the sofa with a sigh and looked at her sister quizzically.

"It was an accident," she said. "He didn't even recognize me".

Courfeyrac's eyes narrowed.

"Or didn't show it. One red-haired young lady also pretended not to know me when I asked her to dance. But we only talked an hour ago!"

Combeferre sighed. This evening he seemed composed and calm as usual, but Eponine could not help noticing a slight flush on his cheeks.

"Mademoiselle," he said to Azelma. "You know, I haven't quite told you the story of that Byron poem yet".

"Ponine saying that there is a wonderful garden," interested, but a little embarrassed she said. "We could talk there."

Combeferre agreed. Together, arm in arm, they walked into the garden, not yet knowing how many fateful conversations it was destined to become. At this hour, the stars were already shining in the sky, and the moon, barely visible under a blue cloud, silently watched anyone who decided to look at it. The night was quiet.

The quietness of the garden in which Frederick and Azelma were left was in stark contrast to the noise that still filled the house. The music was quieter now, but the conversations, on the contrary, had taken on an amazing scale and power. The wine had slowly loosened the bourgeois tongues, and here and there a heated argument now broke out.

Grantaire distinguished himself the most. After draining three bottles of wine, he felt like a true master of the ball. Grantaire was bold, but he became reckless; Grantaire was eloquent, but he became too talkative.

"I'll tell you all about..!" he exclaimed cheerfully, climbing up on the table.

Grantaire still held the half-empty bottle in his hand.

"Your wine is sour, and your maids are ugly. I hate the human race! What rascal said that man was a two-legged creature without feathers? I recently met one very pretty girl, fair as the spring, worthy to be called Floreal, and it is, a despicable creature, was delighted, thrilled, in seventh heaven, because a disgusting banker, pock-marked, but rich to the devil, deign to wish her! You talked about respect, but what do you think is respect? The gold upholstery on the sofas where your royal guests sit, or the hypocritical smiles that you give to every first silly coquette? I hate you, I despise you, come on.… To hell with him!"

Grantaire paused, but remained standing on the table. His speech had an amazing effect on the audience: at first they listened in silence, mistaking him for either a madman or a fool, and then, when there were no more words left, they repaid him with angry and contemptuous glances. Eponine and Courfeyrac sat in silence, not daring to interfere.

When the guests had quieted down a little and seemed to have forgotten all about Grantaire, Eponine breathed a sigh of relief. But this sigh almost immediately turned into an exclamation: Monsieur Francois walked towards the very table on which the skeptic was standing.

"Who are you?" he asked in a thunderous voice.

"Oh, this gentleman recently introduced himself as your nephew from Poitiers," said the man in the blue redingot.

Monsieur Enjolras's face showed almost no emotion. It seemed like a porcelain mask, hiding any manifestation of human nature in it.

"A nephew? From Poitiers?" Monsieur Francois's voice rose a little higher and louder. "What kind of fool would make that up?"

He looked searchingly at Grantaire, but Grantaire was at that moment deaf to the old man's righteous anger. He was looking a little in the other direction — at Enjolras, who was standing a little apart from his father. His gaze seemed more disappointed than cruel, but the clenched hands were a clear sign of displeasure.

"Don't be angry, uncle," Grantaire muttered. "You don't need to do that at your age. They say it can take the heart, so much so that the next person you can be angry with will be the God!"

Monsieur Francois gritted his teeth.

"Get lost!" he exclaimed.

Grantaire came lazily down from the table. He was pleased.

"I don't think we'll ever see anything so funny again," Courfeyrac said to Eponine as Grantaire left the house.

The girl glanced at the old man, who was talking sternly to his son, and with each word Enjolras's face only grew darker. Eponine was genuinely sorry for him.

"You're right," she murmured. "We'd better get going before Monsieur Francois remembers that he has not only a fictitious nephew, but also a fictitious niece."

With these words, Eponine and Courfeyrac left the mansion in the Rue de Vaugirard quietly, without further. In the courtyard they found Combeferre, Azelma and Grantaire; the three seemed to have found common ground, discussing the stars and human nature.

"What is love?" Grantaire asked. "To look to the Lord, knowing that he will turn a deaf ear to your prayers? Looking at the sun without knowing what it means to see light?"

"No!" Azelma exclaimed. "Love is to look at a simple person, but to see in him a divine light and a living soul. It is to see, not to go blind".

Courfeyrac and Eponine did not have long to watch this conversation. Soon Azelma noticed them and became quiet, beckoning her sister to her.

"We'd better go," Eponine said.

The others agreed with her without hesitation. The night was still, but cold: they could not afford to stay long in the garden.

"I live not far from here, in an apartment on the Rue de Rennes," said Combeferre. "There isn't much room, but there's enough to spend the night".

Eponine nodded.

"Do you want to continue the festivities?" Grantaire grinned.

"I don't want my friends moving around Paris at this hour," Combeferre corrected him.

That night, all five of them actually stayed at Combeferre's. It was a restless night, and even though the friends were gathered together, everyone was finally left alone with their own worries, regrets, sorrows, and joys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the finished parts of the work. Now I will write and translate at the same time. But don't worry: a new chapter will definitely appear within 4-5 days.


	18. CHAPTER 18, WHERE SOME SECRETS ARE REVEALED, BUT OTHERS APPEAR

Decisions made in moments when the soul is full of contradictions and confusion, as usual, lose their power in days of calm. Once you give in to the call of your heart, you can change your own life forever. Those individuals who will be discussed later, in one way or another, followed their hearts, ideas and ideals.

Two long days had passed since the ball was over. There was a meeting to be held in the back room of the Musain: political discussions, harsh revolutionary speeches, and heated arguments. The gun, called the protest, was about to fire.

The meeting was scheduled for noon, but the room began to fill up much earlier. Enjolras was the first to enter, having fallen asleep in the early morning, but still full of energy. He was followed by Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Jehan Prouvaire. Then there are Combeferre, Eponine, Azelma and Gavroche. Grantaire came in last, almost too late. He had a cynical grin on his face, but his green eyes were surprisingly serious.

"Did I miss anything, my friends?"

Enjolras rose from his seat and looked at him coldly.

"You think you can get away with coming here after what you've done?"

Grantaire didn't answer. Eponine, sitting not far from Enjolras, spoke for him. She seemed as loud, bold and brisk as ever, but something subtle had changed in her that day.

"If you throw out everyone who comes to your party without permission, you can throw me out, too".

Grantaire looked at Eponine in mock surprise, but said nothing. Enjolras frowned, showing every sign of incomprehension on his handsome face.

"Were you there too?" he asked, more confused than stern.

Eponine chuckled. At that moment Grantaire slipped into the hall and sat down, as was his custom, at the far table.

"Who do you think you danced with?"

Enjolras looked up at the girl in surprise.

"With my cousin from Poitiers," he said, but there was no longer the usual confidence in his voice. "Which one… Wait!"

Eponine laughed. She thought he'd finally figured it out.

"That's it! Otherwise, you don't see anything further than your revolution".

Eponine thought she saw a flicker of embarrassment cross Enjolras's stern face. He turned away from her in silence, saying nothing more to Grantaire, and then began his usual speech.

On this day, the Musain was full of life, spring and young, fresh thoughts. All but Enjolras had briefly forgotten the hard times ahead and were busy with their own Affairs. Combeferre and Azelma, now inseparable, were talking quietly about something of their own, but their looks expressed more than they could say to each other. Not a single cherished word had been spoken, but every one of them could already be read between the lines.

Gavroche was listening. Like Caesar, he managed to do several things in a row: the boy listened to Enjolras's speeches, spied on his sister and Combeferre, and laughed at the argument between Eponine and Grantaire.

"If you were up to some mischief, you could have called me!" Gavroche muttered indignantly to his elder sister. "I know a lot about it, and I'd give those rich people a hard time at the ball!"

Eponine grinned and ruffled his unruly hair.

"Then you would have trashed the house."

"We can have our own ball someday!" Azelma said, her brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "Imagine how great it would be to get everyone together at, say, Corinth".

Courfeyrac, sitting by the fire, laughed and glanced at Enjolras.

"Our leader would rather be shot than risk entering your tavern."

Azelma raised an eyebrow significantly.

"Who knows…"

The conversation, excited by such an unusual proposal, soon returned to its usual course. Enjolras was talking intently about the coming barricades, and his stern profile barely betrayed anything remotely resembling emotion. He recommended some useful books to Gavroche, checked with Combeferre, and took one look at the far corner of the room, where Eponine and Grantaire were sitting. They seemed to be interested in some conversation that turned into an argument every now and then. The mocking smiles on their faces were now and then replaced by sad expressions, and the wine that Grantaire had saved for a special occasion was gradually disappearing from the bottle. Eponine didn't drink.

Just as everyone at the Musain was doing their own thing, another man entered the room. He was tall, smiling and a little ungainly, and his once-new suit was already in need of repair. He went cautiously inside, looked around, and settled down not far from Courfeyrac. It was Marius Pontmercy. It was only the third time he had come to the meeting, and there was no determination in his eyes that could be seen in Enjolras or the other Les Amis.

"Well, hello, friend," Courfeyrac smiled as he noticed another familiar face. "And what made you join us?"

Marius thought about it. Enjolras caught sight of him at that moment, but contented himself with a cold, polite nod.

"My friend," sighed Marius, and patted Courfeyrac on the shoulder. "You think I'm a complete romantic, don't you? Half-crazy?"

Courfeyrac laughed and shrugged his shoulders. Marius continued.

"You may be right, but not in everything. Cosette… Oh, Cosette! She's an angel who came down from heaven. But I cannot bear to see my angel wither in this cruel and sad land. I want her to be happy, and then I'll be happy. But this requires changes that only you, my friends, can make".

Marius was silent, but after a few seconds he exclaimed fervently: "I will fight with you!"

There was a long moment of silence in the Musain. Enjolras finally spoke. Marius's speech, overheard and noticed by chance, surprised him.

"Well, we need everyone," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But now, when there's not much time left before the decisive events, we need to fully invest in the case. The country is waiting for our votes, our help, and our muskets. There's no time to think about anything else".

"But love!.." Marius said.

"It doesn't matter," Enjolras snapped.

Courfeyrac, who had risen from his seat, was about to make a joke about it, but said nothing. Encouraged by the appearance of Marius, he began to tell him about the other Les Amis, not forgetting to mention Eponine Azelma and Gavroche. All this still seemed strange to Marius, a little distant and incomprehensible, but he made an effort to become a full member of this circle. He talked about revolution more than love, and from Courfeyrac's point of view this was already a big breakthrough. In addition, the Les Amis agreed that Marius is not deprived of courage and determination, even if a little naive.

"If you're really willing to fight for what we're fighting for, you can attend the next meeting," Enjolras said as the meeting drew to a close.

"How do I know the time?" Marius asked.

Gavroche, waiting for his sisters, appeared out of thin air before him.

"I'll let youou know! Maybe even through your mamselle bird. I'm like a messenger: my feet are fast and my voice is loud. That's it!"

Marius smiled and left the cafe. The sun was already setting, but even without the lantern, you could still see the road. Marius took a few steps and stopped not far from the bench that he and Cosette sometimes designated as a meeting place. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching a folded piece of paper in his palm, as if he were anxiously awaiting some important event.

Soon Eponine, Azelma, Gavroche, Combeferre and Courfeyrac appeared in the street. They were talking animatedly and laughing loudly, but Marius noticed how difficult it was for Eponine to appear cheerful.

He took a step forward and beckoned her to him.

"So I found you," he said with a slight smile.

Eponine didn't understand the words.

"You were looking for me? Why?"

"I wanted you to do me a favor," Marius said, handing Eponine a sheet of paper. "Give this to Cosette."

"What about you?"

"I can't bear it if she opens the letter and reads it right in front of me. And she will!"

Eponine sighed.

"What about Azelma? She and Cosette are as close as sisters'.

"She might read it ahead of time. I know she wants the best for Cosette, so I'll leave It to you. Cosette has said many kind words about you, too, even if you are not so friendly with her".

Marius's smile was bright and innocent, but his anxiety about the future and what he was about to do was already evident in the tender look in his dark eyes.

Eponine accepted the letter.

"I'll deliver it safely," she promised.

Marius nodded and rummaged in his pockets, but found only five francs. He took them out and handed them to Eponine.

She grinned, put her hand behind her back, and looked at him with a smile:

"I don't want your money, Monsieur".

Marius did not insist. After saying good-bye to Eponine, he went to Courfeyrac's apartment, which had become his home. The reverie that had gripped this young man's mind was growing deeper. He thought of his friends, of the Musain, and of the revolution, but more and more of Cosette.

In our fascination with the Thenardier family and the revolution, we had forgotten all about the two tender souls destined for each other. In those days, when the meetings in the back room of the cafe Musain were held one after another, and Eponine, Azelma and Gavroche were busy with their own lives, Marius and Cosette spent more and more time with each other. They met each other whenever the opportunity presented itself, and the love that had sprung up between them grew stronger with every look, word, sigh, and touch. Cosette was made for Marius, and Marius for Cosette. But the nature of the romantic youth was rebellious: he was attracted by love, he was attracted by happiness, but there was something that could destroy this happiness. Marius saw the cruelty, the arbitrariness, excesses and stupidity. He knew that he could have a hand in their destruction: a happy life in a free country seemed to him more attractive than life in a country that was not free. Anyway, Marius decided to go to the barricades. This is what he said in a touching letter to Cosette: among the endless declarations of love, he left a few regrets and promises.

Marius hoped that the revolution would be successful. He could already imagine their wonderful life filled with love, tenderness and happiness. Marius was putting everything he had on the line for a bright future, not yet knowing what the outcome would really be.


	19. CHAPTER 19, WHERE THE HEART WINS THE BATTLE WITH THE MIND

On that may night, the stars were shining in the sky. All Paris, and especially that corner of it in which, as the reader already knows, the Corinth was located, was fast asleep. There was no sound in the rue de la Chanvrerie except the soft howl of the warm spring wind.

All the inhabitants of the inn, with the exception of Cosette, were asleep. Eponine and Azelma, exhausted by their routine, had long ago dozed in their beds and had dreams that they would tell each other about in the morning. Gavroche, who had decided to stay at the Corinth for the night, had taken over his parent's huge bed: they had gone to collect the inheritance of Madame Janet's dying cousin, as if they had fallen through the ground.

The inn, once filled with ringing voices, noise and music, now enjoyed the long-awaited peace. Only Cosette was awake. Elusive as a shadow, she wandered around the sisters ' room, singing softly and whispering to herself. She was wearing Azelma's clean cream chemise, and her golden-brown hair fell in disarray around her shoulders.

Cosette was still dreaming: sitting on the cushioned chair in front of the mirror, she was once again dreaming of Marius. His noble but gentle image kept coming back to her in her dreams. The new feeling that had settled in her heart after meeting Him was priceless. Cosette cherished this love with unprecedented tenacity. She probably wouldn't have been able to live without it: losing the meaning of life, a person sometimes dies long before the grave.

Cosette looked in the mirror. Her delicate profile was barely visible behind the glass, but a quick glance caught a glimpse of a small envelope lying on the table. Cosette had seen it before, but she always forgot to ask her sisters what it was. She had thought it was only a letter from some cavalier of Azelma or Eponine, but now Cosette somehow decided that this was not the case at all. She quietly lit a candle and held it to the envelope. On the slightly yellowed paper, in a familiar handwriting, was written only one word: "Cosette." She gave a little cry and opened the envelope with trembling hands. It was a letter from Marius. But why didn't he give it to me? Why was this letter now lying here in the inn, forgotten and unread?

Cosette held the candle close to the paper. Here's what Marius wrote:

__

"Cosette, my dear Cosette! My angel! What I write to you next may upset you, but please accept these words with understanding. It's hard for me to even write about it, so I couldn't say it. The sadness in your blue eyes would break my heart. So I asked Eponine to give you this letter, and so now you have it in your hands. Oh, what wonderful fingers you have!

Now, Cosette. You already know what my friends do. You know about the mutiny and the barricades. But now I'll tell you one more thing: I'm going to go with them. Your happiness and mine, my Cosette, will be threatened if the country remains in such a deplorable state. I believe I will be able to change it. Please, Cosette, don't be angry and wait for me! For your sake, and for your sake alone, I am doing this, and for your sake I will try to survive. And, you know… When this is all over — we will definitely get married! You will have a beautiful dress with lace and a ring of pure gold, and you will be even more beautiful than before. Don't be afraid for me, dear Cosette.

Your Marius. "  


When every word had been read and the letter carefully returned to its place, Cosette took a deep breath. Tears suddenly spilled from her beautiful eyes. She pictured Marius fighting on the barricades, and the square in her mind was covered in blood. Cosette was frightened, angry, hurt, and agitated: she could not allow Marius to put his life in danger. It was worth doing something. Cosette extinguished the candle.

The faint moonlight still filtered through the window, and Cosette could clearly see the carefree silhouette of Eponine sleeping. A few days ago, Azelma had mentioned that her older sister was going to the barricades, and now the thought never left Cosette's excited mind. She did not know what Eponine's motive was: perhaps she, too, had followed one of Marius's friends.

Cosette considered. Far from being weak or cowardly, she could handle wounds and could learn to shoot if necessary. There was no one in this world more important to her than Marius. Marius was going to the barricades.

The thought, unspoken, hung in the air. A light breeze lifted the translucent curtains.

"I'll follow you," Cosette whispered, and the scent of roses filled the air.

It was late in the morning before she fell asleep.

The next day, as warm and fresh as the previous one, began unusually early. Gavroche was the first to get up: like a morning bird, he fluttered out of bed with the first ray of sunlight. After Gavroche, Eponine and Azelma awoke. The older sister was thoughtful, while the younger sister, on the contrary, seemed surprisingly peremptory and carefree. Azelma's steps were like dancing steps, and the sparkle in her eyes could have lit up Paris.

"Oh, what a morning," she murmured, looking anxiously out of the window. "What a day!

Eponine watched her sister with a mocking smile.

"What's so funny about that?" she asked. "It's only Friday. Customers are coming in soon".

Azelma shook her head.

"Not only that".

At that moment, there was a knock on the door of their room. Azelma clapped her hands and yanked it open.

"You came earlier than we agreed," the girl said with a slight reproach, but she smiled.

Combeferre shrugged his shoulders. Unlike Azelma, he barely looked embarrassed, but the glint in his gray eyes still betrayed his true emotions.

"It is better to arrive early than to be late," Combeferre said, and when he saw Eponine, he nodded amiably. "Hello".

She smiled faintly and looked at her sister. "I didn't know we were expecting guests today."

Azelma shook her head.

"No! I'll just get myself cleaned up and we'll go for a walk. Sitting at home in this weather is really stupid!" Azelma paused for a moment, then looked slyly at Combeferre and continued. "In the meantime, have some tea. He's waiting for you on the first floor, Gavroche will show you".

Combeferre nodded, and the door closed again.

At this moment, Azelma, who was naturally not lacking in beauty, was especially charming. The freshness of youth in her combined with the sharpness of mind and tenderness of love, which together made up an amazing bouquet. With her usual neatness and meticulousness, Azelma gathered her hair into a coiffure, put on one of her new dresses, and turned several times in front of the mirror, looking for and finding no flaws in the reflection.

"Yes, it's good, it's good," Eponine drawled with a cheerful smile. "Most importantly, don't forget the meeting in the "Musain". It's at six".

Azelma's eyes narrowed.

"You certainly won't forget," she said in the same tone. "And... Frederick and I decided to go there together".

Eponine frowned. She wasn't quite sure what that "you won't forget" meant when Azelma said it so cheerfully. The only thought that came to her mind seemed to Eponine strange, absurd, and completely meaningless. After seeing her sister off, she decided to go about her business: she had to sort out the bills, do the cleaning, and make sure that Gavroche didn't do anything wrong.

At the hour when Eponine, Cosette, and Gavroche had taken charge of the household, Azelma and Combeferre were walking slowly along the Rue Rambuteau. She was smiling and a little embarrassed, and he was calm and modest, but together they made a wonderful couple. Neither of them called the walk a "date," as Marius and Cosette used to call it, and so it seemed only an innocent friendly meeting.

Their path was lit by the bright may sun, and every word was accompanied by the soft singing of birds. Neither Azelma nor Combeferre thought about the future: at that moment, they did not want to believe that today was just the calm before the coming storm.

"You know, the day we first met, you seemed so serious to me," Azelma said with a smile as they stopped to sit on the bench. "I thought you wouldn't be very interested in talking to me."

Combeferre looked at her thoughtfully over the top of his glasses.

"And it struck me that I seem like a boring," he replied. "Even my friends sometimes say that I bore them with my talk of science".

"Oh, no!" Azelma exclaimed. "You are very interesting to listen to. I rarely get to talk to anyone about books and learn something new, and you seem to live only in enlightenment".

Combeferre did not answer. The thoughts that came to his bright head at that moment were a little different from those that he usually told Azelma.

"Not just education," Combeferre said at last.

"Oh, yes," Azelma stammered, "and revolution. You are Monsieur Enjolras's right-hand man, and sometimes you make him calm down a littles. You are the voice of reason, if I may say so."

The young man smiled. Although Azelma was not strong on political matters and did not seem interested in their friends affairs, she seemed to be a surprisingly interesting girl: her intelligence, calmness and seriousness sometimes reminded him of his own, but still there were some differences between them.

"Voice of reason." Combeferre smiled, but his happy expression was soon replaced by a thoughtful one. "Oh, Enjolras… You know, it's just between you and me, but he's been a little confused lately. And I think it might have something to do with your sister".

Azelma looked at him in surprise. She tilted her head to one side, and her whole appearance suggested that she was hatching some idea, which, however, was not quite ready yet.

"Eponine can make mad anyone," she finally said with a faint grin. "But I think I can say the same about her. Something happened".

There was a brief silence between them. They said nothing for a few moments, enjoying each other's company in silence, but the conversation soon resumed. There was no more silence around them. They discussed everything around them and talked about every single thing their inquisitive minds had ever touched. Conversations about history were interspersed with conversations about physics, which in turn foreshadowed conversations about the human soul.

"You are an amazing man, Monsieur Combeferre," Azelma said when her companion had finished quoting another scientific theory.

"Call me Frederick," he said with a slight smile.

Azelma nodded. She was silent for a few moments, and then, for some reason, she began to talk about Shakespeare's one hundred and thirtieth sonnet. She liked how calmly she could talk to Frederick and not blush every time she heard a compliment from him. There was no love between them that flares up after the very first glance, but there was one that usually grows out of friendship.

Azelma, who had become a little bolder than before, forgot all about the meeting. At the moment when Combeferre gently interrupted her, telling her that they had to go, she barely restrained herself from being upset.

"We must be more serious about what awaits us," Frederick said softly, but his voice was more serious than before.

They arrived at the Musin ten minutes before the appointed hour: Combeferre, without betraying himself, arrived at the cafe earlier than most of his friends. At the door of the cafe he saw Enjolras, who, however, seemed as intent as ever.

"Hello," said Combeferre, and shook his hand.

Enjolras responded in kind, and Azelma, in turn, wished him a good evening. Soon the meeting was attended by Feuilly, followed by Bahorel, Bossuet and Joly, then — Jehan Prouvaire and Courfeyrac, and behind them appeared Eponine and Gavroche. Last, as was often the case, was Grantaire.

In the coming meeting, each of those present saw something new: it seemed that they were crossing an invisible line, after which there would be no way to retreat. Perhaps for some it was one of the last sunny days: each of the Friends realized that they might not survive the summer. The freedom for which they had fought so fiercely could not fall into their hands without a fight, and therefore everything must now be done to wrest it by force when the time was right.


	20. CHAPTER 20, WHERE A SPARK IGNITES A FLAME

Any large city, and in our case Paris, is like an artillery piece: when it is loaded, a spark is enough to trigger a volley. In June 1832, the death of General Lamarque was such a spark.

On the fourth of June, a particularly hot and sunny day, the people finally awoke from their long slumber. Now there was almost open talk of mutiny in the streets — the spark, as it should have been, had started a real fire. The back room of the cafe Musain was also uneasy at this hour: the excitement felt by the people could not but reflect on those who considered their main goal to be their liberation.

At the meeting of Les Amis on this day, everyone was present.

"General Lamarque is dead!" Gavroche exclaimed, as he was one of the last to enter the room. "I've also heard people in the street talking about the mutiny, can you imagine? They say, it's time, that's it!"

With that, he exhaled, pulled his old cap off his disheveled head, and sank noisily into a chair. Eponine looked at him with mocking pride, and Enjolras nodded confidently.

"Thank you, Gavroche," he said stiffly. "I have already read about it in the French Gazette, but I am now convinced that it is time for us to act".

Eleven pairs of eyes were looking at Enjolras at that moment. Every member of les amis, with the exception of Grantaire, was transformed: from ordinary students, workers and idlers, they became ardent and sincere freedom fighters. The circle, created in order to raise the country from its knees, remembered its true purpose.

"Tomorrow will be what we have been preparing for and expecting," Enjolras began, standing in the center of the room. "We have to fight for the Republic, for a new world and a bright future, which every honest person deserves. Life as we know it will cease to exist the moment we have to take up arms. But freedom, true freedom, is something for which it is not a pity to shed blood or give life. Now, before we take the decisive step, we must understand who we are: true fighters who are ready for any sacrifice, or just a group of boys who think they are revolutionaries".

Enjolras fell silent. The bright sunlight from the room's only dim window outlined his sharp, noble profile like an artist's. Enjolras was as stern as a soldier, but he spoke like an orator or a singer. His stern gaze was straight, and nothing was more important to this man than the Republic. He lived in freedom and did not recognize other ideals.

"I'll go with you," a confident voice said suddenly. "Freedom deserves to be fought for".

It was Courfeyrac. He was dressed, as usual, in an old hat and mustard-colored caftan, but his gaze had changed: now Antoine looked mocking, but serious and focused.

It was followed by other voices.

"And me!" roared Bahorel. "It's high time the guards had a good beating!"

"We must liberate the country, and then the world," Feuilly said. "I'm with you."

"I'll go too!" Gavroche exclaimed, climbing into a chair. "I may be small, but I will definitely be useful to you!"

"Take me, too, and don't think I'm sick," Joly said in a nasal voice. "The barricades will heal".

"You can count on me, too," Jehan Prouvaire added, his gentle face suddenly much more serious. "I don't want to be remembered by the people as just a poet".

"I'll still be remembered as the unluckiest," Bossuet muttered with a grin. "But I am ready to help you in our common cause, friends".

For a few moments there was silence in the Musain. Enjolras was almost pleased. Combeferre, who had previously remained silent, soon took the floor.

"There is no doubt that you can count on my participation, too," he began. "However, you can't help but agree that this is not just dangerous, but deadly: any of us can die, and death, as far as science knows, is irreversible. And so I wanted to remind you, my friends, of one thing: whether to go to the barricades or not is your choice. Your lives, like any human lives, have a value that is incomparable to any idea".

When Combeferre had finished speaking, Enjolras looked at him gravely and frowningly.

"Combeferre is right," he said reluctantly. "What we plan is a choice, but the result depends on the decision of each of you in one way or another. A thousand people is good, a hundred is not so bad, but ten will no longer make any sense".

The room was filled with thoughtful looks. One of them, the youngest and most delicate, belonged to Azelma. She had never expressed her opinion about the barricades, but now, after Combeferre's speech, she decided to vote.

"If you say that revolution is a choice, then I am free to make my own," she began cautiously. "You are all wonderful guys, and I want to believe that you will win. But I can't be with you. I don't know how to do many things, and I'm not so brave, and I can't fight, and I'm afraid of blood, and... I'm sorry".

No one answered, but none of them looked at Azelma with disapproval. A little later, Combeferre whispered something in her ear and squeezed her hand soothingly, and the others completely forgot about her words.

"What about your sister?" Grantaire asked, giving Azelma a quizzical look.

"I think you know," she said, and smiled a warm, friendly smile.

Eponine, sitting not far from her sister, overheard the conversation. She was a little more silent than usual today, but she still didn't neglect the opportunity to get into some kind of argument.

"I think I can help in some way," Eponine said. "I don't want to waste my life on useless little things, and what everyone here is fighting for... I think it's really important. In general, I can fight, I can hold a gun and shoot, and I can also help the wounded. I think that I will not be superfluous there".

Grantaire sighed and took another sip of wine from the half-empty bottle. He looked disappointed.

"It will be sad to lose such a friend," he murmured. "One day you talk nonsense to me, and the next you'll be stuffed with bullets like a turkey with spices."

Eponine gave a mirthless grin, but didn't answer. She suddenly imagined herself dying on the barricades. Choking gray smoke curls around, smells of gunpowder and blood, and the square is flooded with flames. No family or friends are around, and a trickle of blood runs from her chest like a scarlet thread. It becomes more and more difficult to breathe, and more and more clearly — hopelessness.

When the dark vision cleared, Eponine breathed a sigh of relief. She blinked rapidly several times, shook her head, and drank a glass of water. Her friends seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, so she began to stare unabashedly at each of them. Eponine wondered what would happen if one of them died, but she still hoped that death would pass her friends by. Her greatest concern was for Gavroche: the death of her younger brother seemed to Eponine one of her worst nightmares, and she would never have forgiven herself if she had allowed it.

Trying to distract herself from her dark thoughts, Eponine glanced at Enjolras. Concentrated and brooding, he spoke with Feuilly and Prouvaire about the weapon, and then inserting any important comments. Enjolras's face was impenetrable, and his eyes were the same as when he had first met Eponine — stern, thoughtful, and devoid of emotion. He'd almost thrown her out the door then, she thought, and now…

"Are you sure you want to join us?"

The familiar ringing voice caught Eponine off guard. Enjolras was looking directly at her now, and he must have noticed that she had never taken her eyes off him before.

"Why do you ask?" Eponine asked with a slight smile, but continued, assuming she wouldn't get an answer to her question. "Anyway, I really want to go with you. I've already told you why, but I can repeat it if you weren't listening".

Enjolras did not answer. He shook his head briefly and returned to Feuilly. It was easier for him to talk about bullets than about human feelings, Eponine thought. She sat down again, swung her leg, and smiled at her little joke: "with you" and "with You" didn't mean exactly the same thing.

Meanwhile, the meeting of Les Amis, the last of all, continued. None of the young men lost the sternness that had visited these young faces in the morning. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Prouvaire were arguing about the best place to build a barricade. The first insisted on the Place Saint-Michel, the second-on one of the streets near the Place de la Bastille, the third offered to act on the situation, and the fourth considered the option of completely abandoning the construction of barricades. Eponine, distracted from her thoughts by loud conversations, suggested the Rue Chanvrerie.

"There's not much room, but it's easy to barricade the street," she said, addressing all four of them at once. "There's a lot of garbage nearby, and my neighbors are kind, sympathetic, and unhappy with the government, so we'll have something to build from. And there will be something to eat, because "Corinth" is very close".

The young people thought about it. Combeferre made a sound vaguely like "m-m" and adjusted his glasses, then nodded.

"I've been there. Nice place".

Courfeyrac twirled his hat a little.

"Only the innkeeper's daughter would suggest building a barricade outside the tavern," he joked. "But it's a really good idea. I have long wanted to visit your vaunted "Corinth"".

Prouvaire did not answer. He was still hopeful of a more peaceful outcome, so he kept quiet.

Enjolras considered the proposal the longest. All the qualities inherent in his soul became twice as strong when it came to fighting for freedom. The same thing happened with responsibility: Enjolras could not afford to make a wrong decision.

"If I remember correctly," he said at last. "The Rue Chanvrerie crosses the Rue Mondetour, and there is plenty of room at that intersection. We will block two streets at once with one barricade. Besides, we will have provisions, because there will be a tavern nearby".

Eponine smiled.

"Does that mean yes?"

Enjolras nodded.

Another problem remained unresolved.

"We must protect the Corinth," Eponine said confidently, hoping her friends could still hear her. "My sister will be there".

Combeferre perked up. His previously thoughtful gaze was now troubled.

"We won't do anything to send the guards there," he promised. "Your sister will be fine".

The meeting, which had begun under the sign of the last frontier, was coming to an end. Enjolras, still as sharp and inspired as at the beginning, did not lose his ardor: he gave out the last orders, analyzed the mistakes of the thirtieth year, and reflected on how the country would change if their aspirations did not fail. Enjolras was a kind of idealist.

"We argued, we quarreled, we laughed," Courfeyrac said when the meeting was over. "We drank, we had fun, we were friends, we danced at balls, we fell in love and, in the end, we lived. Now let's go fight".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is still being translated from a foreign language into English, so please note if there are any errors here. Maybe there are problems with grammar or something...
> 
> I will be glad of any answers and any help, because, unfortunately, I do not know English so well.


End file.
